ARCHITECTURE 
AND  DEMOCRACY 

CLAUDE 
BRAGDON 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


ARCHITECTURE 
AND  DEMOCRACY 
By  CLAUDE  BRAGDON 


BOOKS  BY  CLAUDE  BRAGDON 

THE     GOLDEN     PERSON     IN     THE 
HEART  (Out  of  print) 

THE  BEAUTIFUL  NECESSITY 

(Out  of  Print) 

EPISODES    FROM    AN    UNWRITTEN 
HISTORY 

A  PRIMER  OF  HIGHER  SPACE 

PROJECTIVE  ORNAMENT 

FOUR-DIMENSIONAL  VISTAS 


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PLATE  I.      THE    WOOLWORTH    BUILDING,    NEW    YORK 


ARCHITECTURE 

AND 

DEMOCRACY 


BY 

CLAUDE  BRAGDON 

F.  A.  I.  A. 


NEW  YORK 

ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 

1918 


CX)PYRIGHT,  1918,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  ICSfOPF,  Inc. 


37 


FEINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


PREFACE 

This  book  can  lay  no  claim  to  unity  of  theme, 
since  its  subjects  range  from  skyscrapers  to  sym- 
bols and  soul  states;  but  the  author  claims  for  it 
nevertheless  a  unity  of  point  of  view,  and  one  (cor- 
rect or  not)  so  comprehensive  as  to  include  in  one 
synthesis  every  subject  dealt  with.  For  accord- 
ing to  that  point  of  view,  a  skyscraper  is  only  a  sym- 
bol— and  of  what?  A  condition  of  consciousness, 
that  is,  a  state  of  the  soul.  Democracy  even,  we 
are  beginning  to  discover,  is  a  condition  of  con- 
sciousness too. 

Our  only  hope  of  understanding  the  welter  of 
life  in  which  we  are  immersed,  as  in  a  swift  and 
muddy  river,  is  in  ascending  as  near  to  its  pure 
source  as  we  can.  That  source  is  in  consciousness 
and  consciousness  is  in  ourselves.  This  is  the 
point  of  view  from  which  each  problem  dealt  with 
has  been  attacked;  but  lest  the  author  be  at  once 
set  down  as  an  impracticable  dreamer,  dwelling 
aloof  in  an  ivory  tower,  the  reader  should  know 


Preface 

that  his  book  has  been  written  in  the  scant  inter- 
vals afforded  by  the  practice  of  the  profession  of 
architecture,  so  broadened  as  to  include  the  study 
of  abstract  form,  the  creation  of  ornament,  experi- 
ments with  color  and  light,  and  such  occasional 
educational  activities  as  from  time  to  time  he  has 
been  called  upon  to  perform  at  one  or  another 
architectural  school. 

The  three  essays  included  under  the  general 
heading  of  "Democracy  and  Architecture"  were 
prepared  at  the  request  of  the  editor  of  The  Archi- 
tectural Record,  and  were  published  in  that  jour- 
nal. The  two  following,  on  "Ornament  from 
Mathematics,"  represent  a  recasting  and  a  rewriting 
of  articles  which  have  appeared  in  The  Architec- 
tural Review,  The  Architectural  Forum,  and  The 
American  Architect.  "Harnessing  the  Rainbow" 
is  an  address  delivered  before  the  Ad.  Club  of 
Cleveland,  and  the  Rochester  Rotary  Club,  and  aft- 
erwards made  into  an  essay  and  published  in  The 
American  Architect  under  a  different  title.  The 
appreciation  of  Louis  Sullivan  as  a  writer  appears 
here  for  the  first  time,  the  author  having  previously 
paid  his  respects  to  Mr.  Sullivan's  strictly  archi- 
tectural genius  in  an  essay  in  House  and  Garden. 
"Color  and  Ceramics"  was  delivered  on  the  occa- 


Preface 

sion  of  the  dedication  of  the  Ceramic  Building  of 
the  University  of  Illinois,  and  afterwards  published 
in  The  Architectural  Forum.  "Symbols  and  Sac- 
raments" was  printed  in  the  English  Quarterly 
Orpheus.  "Self  Education"  was  delivered  before 
the  Boston  Architectural  Club,  and  afterwards  pub- 
lished in  a  number  of  architectural  journals. 

Acknowledgment  is  hereby  tendered  by  the 
author  to  the  editors  of  these  various  magazines  for 
their  consent  to  republication,  together  with  thanks, 
however  belated,  for  their  unfailing  hospitality  to 
the  children  of  his  brain. 

Claude  Bragdon. 

August  1,  1918. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Architecture  and  Democracy 

I.     Before  the  War  1 

II.     During  the  War  31 

III.     After  the  War  51 
Ornament  from  Mathematics 

I.     The  World  Order  77 

II.     The  Fourth  Dimension  104 

Harnessing  the  Rainbow  121 

Louis  Sullivan,  Prophet  of  Democracy  141 

Color  and  Ceramics  160 

Symbols  and  Sacraments  176 

Self-Education  201 


LIST  OF  FULL  PAGE  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Plate         I.     The      Woolworth      Building, 

New  York  Frontispiece 

Plate       II.     The  New  York  Public  Library  9 

Plate      III.     The     Prudential     Building,     Buffalo, 

N.  Y.  15 

Plate      IV.     The  Erie  County  Savings  Bank,  Buf- 
falo, N.  Y.  21 

Plate        V.     The  New  York  Central  Terminal  27 

Plate      VI.     Plan    of    the    Red    Cross    Community 

Club  House,  Camp  Sherman,  Ohio         35 

Plate    VII.     Interior  View  of  the  Camp  Sherman 

Community  House  43 

Imaginative  Sketch  by  Henry  P.  Kirby  53 

Architectural  Sketch  by  Otto  Rieth  59 

200  West  57th  Street,  New  York  63 

Imaginary  Composition:     The  Portal  79 

Imaginary     Composition:     The     Bal- 
cony 93 

Imaginary    Composition:     The   Audi- 
ence Chamber  111 

Song   and    Light:     An    Approach   to- 
ward "Color  Music"  123 

Symbol  of  Resurrection  177 


Plate 

VIII. 

Plate 

IX. 

Plate 

X. 

Plate 

XI. 

Plate 

XII. 

Plate 

XIII. 

Plate  XIV. 

Plate 

XV. 

Every  form  of  government,  every  social  institu- 
tion, every  undertaking,  however  great,  however 
small,  every  symbol  of  enlightenment  or  degrada- 
tion, each  and  all  have  sprung  and  are  still  spring- 
ing from  the  life  of  the  people,  and  have  ever 
formed  and  are  now  as  surely  forming  images  of 
their  thought.  Slowly  by  centuries,  generations, 
years,  days,  hours,  the  thought  of  the  people  has 
changed;  so  with  precision  have  their  acts  respon- 
sively  changed;  thus  thoughts  and  acts  have  flowed 
and  are  flowing  ever  onward,  unceasingly  onward, 
involved  ivithin  the  impelling  power  of  Life. 
Throughout  this  stream  of  human  life,  and  thought, 
and  activity,  men  have  ever  felt  the  need  to  build; 
and  from  the  need  arose  the  power  to  build.  So, 
as  they  thought,  they  built;  for,  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  they  could  build  in  no  other  way.  As  they 
built,  they  made,  used,  and  left  behind  them  records 
of  their  thinking.  Then,  as  through  the  years  new 
men  came  with  changed  thoughts,  so  arose  new 
buildings  in  consonance  with  the  change  of 
thought — the  building  always  the  expression  of 
the  thinking.  Whatever  the  character  of  the  think- 
ing, just  so  was  the  character  of  the  building. 

What  is  Architecture?  A  Study  in  the  American  Peo- 
ple of  Today,  by  Louis  Sullivan. 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


BEFORE  THE  WAR 

THE  world  war  represents  not  the  triumph,  but 
tlie  birth  of  democracy.  The  true  ideal  of 
democracy — the  rule  of  a  people  by  the  de- 
mos, or  group  soul — is  a  thing  unrealized.  How 
then  is  it  possible  to  consider  or  discuss  an  archi- 
tecture of  democracy — the  shadow  of  a  shade?  It 
is  not  possible  to  do  so  with  any  degree  of  finality, 
but  by  an  intention  of  consciousness  upon  this  jux- 
taposition of  ideas — architecture  and  democracy — 
signs  of  the  times  may  yield  new  meanings,  rela- 
tions may  emerge  between  things  apparently  unre- 
lated, and  the  future,  always  existent  in  every  pres- 
ent moment,  may  be  evoked  by  that  strange  magic 
which  resides  in  the  human  mind. 

Architecture,  at  its  worst  as  at  its  best,  reflects 

[1] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


always  a  true  image  of  the  thing  that  produced  it;  a 
building  is  revealing  even  though  it  is  false,  just  as 
the  face  of  a  liar  tells  the  thing  his  words  en- 
deavor to  conceal.  This  being  so,  let  us  make  such 
architecture  as  is  ours  declare  to  us  our  true  estate. 

The  architecture  of  the  United  States,  from  the 
period  of  the  Civil  War,  up  to  the  beginning  of  the 
present  crisis,  everywhere  reflects  a  struggle  to  be 
free  of  a  vicious  and  depraved  form  of  feudalism, 
grown  strong  under  the  very  aegis  of  democracy. 
The  qualities  that  made  feudalism  endeared  and 
enduring;  qualities  written  in  beauty  on  the  cathe- 
dral cities  of  mediaeval  Europe — faith,  worship, 
loyalty,  magnanimity — were  either  vanished  or 
banished  from  this  pseudo-democratic,  aridly  scien- 
tific feudalism,  leaving  an  inheritance  of  strife  and 
tyranny — a  strife  grown  mean,  a  tyranny  grown 
prudent,  but  full  of  sinister  power  the  weight  of 
which  we  have  by  no  means  ceased  to  feel. 

Power,  strangely  mingled  with  timidity;  ingenu- 
ity, frequently  misdirected;  ugliness,  the  result  of 
a  false  ideal  of  beauty — these  in  general  charac- 
terize the  architecture  of  our  immediate  past;  an 
architecture  "without  ancestry  or  hope  of  poster- 
ity," an  architecture  devoid  of  coherence  or  con- 
viction; willing  to  lie,  willing  to  steal.     What  im- 

[2] 


Before  the  War 


pression  such  a  city  as  Chicago  or  Pittsburgh  might 
have  made  upon  some  denizen  of  those  cathedral- 
crowned  feudal  cities  of  the  past  we  do  not  know. 
He  would  certainly  have  been  amazed  at  its  giant 
energy,  and  probably  revolted  at  its  grimy  dreari- 
ness. We  are  wont  to  pity  the  mediaeval  man  for 
the  dirt  he  lived  in,  even  while  smoke  greys  our 
sky  and  dirt  permeates  the  very  air  we  breathe: 
we  think  of  castles  as  grim  and  cathedrals  as  dim, 
but  they  were  beautiful  and  gay  with  color  com- 
pared with  the  grim,  dim  canyons  of  our  city 
streets. 

Lafcadio  Heam,  in  A  Conservative,  has  sketched 
for  us,  with  a  sympathy  truly  clairvoyant,  the  im- 
pression made  by  the  cities  of  the  West  upon  the 
consciousness  of  a  young  Japanese  samurai  edu- 
cated under  a  feudalism  not  unlike  that  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  wherein  was  worship,  reverence, 
poetry,  loyalty — however  strangely  compounded 
with  the  more  sinister  products  of  the  feudal  state. 

Larger  than  all  anticipation  the  West  appeared  to 
him, — a  world  of  giants;  and  that  which  depresses  even 
the  boldest  Occidental  who  finds  himself,  without  means 
or  friends,  alone  in  a  great  city,  must  often  have  de- 
pressed the  Oriental  exile:  that  vague  uneasiness  aroused 
by  the  sense  of  being  invisible  to  hurrying  millions;  by 

[3] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


the  ceaseless  roar  of  traffic  drowning  voices;  by  mon- 
strosities of  architecture  without  a  soul;  by  the  dynamic 
display  of  wealth  forcing  mind  and  hand,  as  mere  cheap 
machinery,  to  the  uttermost  limits  of  the  possible.  Per- 
haps he  saw  such  cities  as  Dore  saw  London:  sullen 
majesty  of  arched  glooms,  and  granite  deeps  opening 
into  granite  deeps  beyond  range  of  vision,  and  moun- 
tains of  masonry  with  seas  of  labor  in  turmoil  at  their 
base,  and  monumental  spaces  displaying  the  grimness  of 
ordered  power  slow-gathering  through  centuries.  Of 
beauty  there  was  nothing  to  make  appeal  to  him  between 
those  endless  cliffs  of  stone  which  walled  out  the  sunrise 
and  the  sunset,  the  sky  and  the  wind. 

The  view  of  our  pre-war  architecture  thus  sketch- 
ily  presented  is  sure  to  be  sharply  challenged  in 
certain  quarters,  but  unfortunately  for  us  all  this 
is  no  mere  matter  of  opinion,  it  is  a  matter  of  fact. 
The  buildings  are  there,  open  to  observation;  rooted 
to  the  spot,  they  cannot  run  away.  Like  criminals 
"caught  with  the  goods"  they  stand,  self -convicted, 
dirty  with  the  soot  of  a  thousand  chimneys,  heavy 
with  the  spoils  of  vanished  civilizations;  graft  and 
greed  stare  at  us  out  of  their  glazed  windows — eyes 
behind  which  no  soul  can  be  discerned.  There  are 
doubtless  extenuating  circumstances;  they  want  to 
be  clean,  they  want  to  be  honest,  these  "monsters  of 
the  mere  market,"  but  they  are  nevertheless  the  un- 

[4] 


Before  the  War 


conscious  victims  of  evils  inherent  in  our  transi- 
tional social  state. 

Let  us  examine  these  strange  creatures,  doomed, 
it  is  hoped,  to  extinction  in  favor  of  more  intelli- 
gent and  gracious  forms  of  life.  They  are  big, 
powerful,  "necessitous,"  and  have  therefore  an  im- 
pressiveness,  even  an  aesthetic  appeal,  not  to  be  de- 
nied. So  subtle  and  sensitive  an  old-world  con- 
sciousness as  that  of  M.  Paul  Bourget  was  set  vi- 
brating by  them  like  a  violin  to  the  concussion  of  a 
trip-hammer,  and  to  the  following  tune: 

The  portals  of  the  basements,  usually  arched  as  if 
crushed  beneath  the  weight  of  the  mountains  which  they 
support,  look  like  dens  of  a  primitive  race,  continually 
receiving  and  pouring  forth  a  stream  of  people.  You 
lift  your  eyes,  and  you  feel  that  up  there  behind  the 
perpendicular  wall,  with  its  innumerable  windows,  is  a 
multitude  coming  and  going, — crowding  the  offices  that 
perforate  these  cliffs  of  brick  and  iron,  dizzied  with  the 
speed  of  the  elevators.  You  divine,  you  feel  the  hot 
breath  of  speculation  quivering  behind  these  windows. 
This  it  is  which  has  fecundated  these  thousands  of  square 
feet  of  earth,  in  order  that  from  them  may  spring  up  this 
appalling  growth  of  business  palaces,  that  hide  the  sun 
from  you  and  almost  shut  out  the  light  of  day. 

"The  simple  power  of  necessity  is  to  a  certain 
degree  a  principle  of  beauty,"  says  M.  Bourget, 

[5] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


and  to  these  structures  this  order  of  beauty  cannot 
be  denied,  but  even  this  is  vitiated  by  a  failure  to 
press  the  advantage  home:  the  ornate  facades  are 
notably  less  impressive  than  those  whose  grim  and 
stark  geometry  is  unmitigated  by  the  grave-clothes 
of  dead  styles.  Instances  there  are  of  strivings  to- 
ward a  beauty  that  is  fresh  and  living,  but  they 
are  so  unsuccessful  and  infrequent  as  to  be  negli- 
gible. However  impressive  these  buildings  may 
be  by  reason  of  their  ordered  geometry,  their  weight 
and  magnitude,  and  as  a  manifestation  of  irrepres- 
sible power,  they  have  the  unloveliness  of  things 
ignoble,  being  the  product  neither  of  praise,  nor 
joy,  nor  worship,  but  enclosures  for  the  transaction 
of  sharp  bargains — gold-bringing  jinn  of  our 
modem  Aladdins,  who  love  them  not  but  only  use 
them.  That  is  the  reason  they  are  ugly ;  no  one  has 
loved  them  for  themselves  alone. 

For  beauty  is  ever  the  very  face  of  love.  From 
the  architecture  of  a  true  democracy,  founded  on 
love  and  mutual  service,  beauty  would  inevitably 
shine  forth;  its  absence  convicts  us  of  a  maladjust- 
ment in  our  social  and  economic  life.  A  sky- 
scraper shouldering  itself  aloft  at  the  expense  of 
its  more  humble  neighbors,  stealing  their  air  and 
their  sunlight,  is  a  symbol,  written  large  against 

[6] 


Before  the  War 


the  sky,  of  the  will-to-power  of  a  man  or  a  group  of 
men — of  that  ruthless  and  tireless  aggression  on 
the  part  of  the  cunning  and  the  strong  so  character- 
istic of  the  period  which  produced  the  skyscraper. 
One  of  our  streets  made  up  of  buildings  of  diverse 
styles  and  shapes  and  sizes — like  a  jaw  with  some 
teeth  whole,  some  broken,  some  rotten,  and  some 
gone — is  a  symbol  of  our  unkempt  individualism, 
now  happily  becoming  curbed  and  chastened  by  a 
common  danger,  a  common  devotion. 

Some  people  hold  the  view  that  our  insensitive- 
ness  to  formal  beauty  is  no  disgrace.  Such  argue 
that  our  accomplishments  and  our  interests  are 
in  other  fields,  where  we  more  than  match  the  ac- 
complishments of  older  civilizations.  They  for- 
get that  every  achievement  not  registered  in  terms 
of  beauty  has  failed  of  its  final  and  enduring  trans- 
mutation. It  is  because  the  achievements  of  older 
civilizations  attained  to  their  apotheoses  in  art  that 
they  interest  us,  and  unless  we  are  able  to  eff'ect  a 
corresponding  transmutation  we  are  destined  to 
perish  unhonoured  on  our  rubbish  heap.  That  we 
shall  eff'ect  it,  through  knowledge  and  suff'ering,  is 
certain,  but  before  attempting  the  more  genial  and 
rewarding  task  of  tracing,  in  our  life  and  in  our 
architecture,  those  forces  and  powers  which  make 

[7] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


for  righteousness,  for  beauty,  let  us  look  our  fail- 
ures squarely  in  the  face,  and  discover  if  we  can 
why  they  are  failures. 

Confining  this  examination  to  the  particular  mat- 
ter under  discussion,  the  neo-feudal  architecture 
of  our  city  streets,  we  find  it  to  lack  unity,  and 
the  reason  for  this  lack  of  unity  dwells  in  a  divided 
consciousness.  The  tall  office  building  is  the 
product  of  many  forces,  or  perhaps  we  should  say 
one  force,  that  of  necessity;  but  its  concrete  em- 
bodiment is  the  result  of  two  different  orders  of 
talent,  that  of  the  structural  engineer  and  of  the 
architectural  designer.  These  are  usually  incar- 
nate in  two  different  individuals,  working  more  or 
less  at  cross  purposes.  It  is  the  business  of  the  en- 
gineer to  preoccupy  himself  solely  with  ideas  of 
efficiency  and  economy,  and  over  his  efficient  and 
economical  structure  the  designer  smears  a  frost- 
ing of  beauty  in  the  form  of  architectural  style,  in 
the  archaeological  sense.  This  is  a  foolish  prac- 
tice, and  cannot  but  result  in  failure.  In  the  case 
of  a  Greek  temple  or  a  mediaeval  cathedral  struc- 
ture and  style  were  not  twain,  but  one ;  the  structure 
determined  the  style,  the  style  expressed  the  struc- 
ture; but  with  us  so  divorced  have  the  two  things 
become  that  in  a  case  known  to  the  author,  the 
[8] 


Before  the  War 


structural  framework  of  a  great  office  building  was 
determined  and  fabricated  and  then  architects  were 
invited  to  "submit  designs"  for  the  exterior.  This 
is  of  course  an  extreme  example  and  does  not  rep- 
resent the  usual  practice,  but  it  brings  sharply  to 
consciousness  the  well  known  fact  that  for  these 
buildings  we  have  substantially  one  method  of  con- 
struction— that  of  the  vertical  strut,  and  the  hori- 
zontal "fill" — while  in  style  they  appear  as  Gre- 
cian, Roman,  Renaissance,  Gothic,  Modem  French 
and  what  not,  according  to  the  whim  of  the  de- 
signer. 

With  the  modem  tendency  toward  specialization, 
the  natural  outgrowth  of  necessity,  there  is  no  in- 
herent reason  why  the  bones  of  a  building  should 
not  be  devised  by  one  man  and  its  fleshly  clothing  by 
another,  so  long  as  they  understand  one  another, 
and  are  in  ideal  agreement,  but  there  is  in  general 
all  too  little  understanding,  and  a  confusion  of 
ideas  and  aims.  To  the  average  structural  engi- 
neer the  architectural  designer  is  a  mere  milliner 
in  stone,  informed  in  those  prevailing  architectural 
fashions  of  which  he  himself  knows  little  and  cares 
less.  Preoccupied  as  he  is  with  the  building's 
strength,  safety,  economy;  solving  new  and  stagger- 
ingly difficult  problems  with  address  and  daring,  he 

[11] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


has  scant  sympathy  with  such  inconsequent  matters 
as  the  stylistic  purity  of  a  fagade,  or  the  profile  of  a 
moulding.  To  die  designer,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  engineer  appears  in  the  light  of  a  subordinate 
to  be  used  for  the  promotion  of  his  own  ends,  or  an 
evil  to  be  endured  as  an  interference  with  those 
ends. 

As  a  result  of  this  lack  of  sympathy  and  co-ordi- 
nation, success  crowns  only  those  efforts  in  which, 
on  the  one  hand,  the  stylist  has  been  completely  sub- 
ordinated to  engineering  necessity,  as  in  the  case 
of  the  East  River  bridges,  where  the  architect  was 
called  upon  only  to  add  a  final  grace  to  the  strictly 
structural  towers ;  or  on  the  other  hand,  in  which  the 
structure  is  of  the  old-fashioned  masonry  sort,  and 
faced  with  a  familiar  problem  the  architect  has 
found  it  easy  to  be  frank;  as  in  the  case  of  the 
Manhattan  Storage  Warehouse,  on  42nd  Street, 
New  York,  or  in  the  Bryant  Park  fagade  on  the 
New  York  Library.  The  Woolworth  building  is  a 
notable  example  of  the  complete  co-ordination  be- 
tween the  structural  framework  and  its  envelope, 
and  falls  short  of  ideal  success  only  in  the  em- 
ployment of  an  archaic  and  alien  ornamental  lan- 
guage, used,  however,  let  it  be  said,  with  a  fine  un- 
derstanding of  the  function  of  ornament. 
[12] 


Before  the  War 


For  the  most  part  though,  there  is  a  difference 
of  intention  between  the  engineer  and  the  designer; 
they  look  two  ways,  and  the  resuh  of  their  collabor- 
ation is  a  flat  and  confused  image  of  the  thing  that 
should  be,  not  such  as  is  produced  by  truly  binocu- 
lar vision.  This  difference  of  aim  is  largely  the 
result  of  a  difference  of  education.  Engineering 
science  of  the  sort  which  the  use  of  steel  has  re- 
quired is  a  thing  unprecedented;  the  engineer  can- 
not hark  back  to  the  past  for  help,  even  if  he  would. 
The  case  is  different  with  the  architectural  de- 
signer; he  is  taught  that  all  of  the  best  songs  have 
been  sung,  all  of  the  true  words  spoken.  The 
Glory  that  was  Greece,  and  the  Grandeur  that  was 
Rome,  the  romantic  exuberance  of  Gothic,  and  the 
ordered  restraint  of  Renaissance  are  so  drummed 
into  him  during  his  years  of  training,  and  exercise 
so  tyrannical  a  spell  over  his  imagination  that  he 
loses  the  power  of  clear  and  logical  thought,  and 
never  becomes  truly  creative.  Free  of  this  incubus 
the  engineer  has  succeeded  in  being  straightforward 
and  sensible,  to  say  the  least;  subject  to  it  the  man 
with  a  so-called  architectural  education  is  too  often 
tortuous  and  absurd. 

The  architect  without  any  training  in  the  essen- 
tials of  design  produces  horrors  as  a  matter  of 

[13] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


course,  for  the  reason  that  sin  is  the  result  of  ig- 
norance; the  architect  trained  in  the  false  manner 
of  the  current  schools  becomes  a  reconstructive 
archaeologist,  handicapped  by  conditions  with 
which  he  can  deal  only  imperfectly,  and  imper- 
fectly control.  Once  in  a  blue  moon  a  man  arises 
who,  with  all  the  advantages  inherent  in  education, 
pierces  through  the  past  to  the  present,  and  is  able 
to  use  his  brain  as  the  architects  of  the  past  used 
theirs — to  deal  simply  and  directly  with  his  imme- 
diate problem. 

Such  a  man  is  Louis  Sullivan,  though  it  must  be 
admitted  that  not  always  has  he  achieved  success. 
That  success  was  so  marked,  however,  in  his  treat- 
ment of  the  problem  of  the  tall  building,  and  exer- 
cised subconsciously  such  a  spell  upon  the  minds 
even  of  his  critics  and  detractors,  tliat  it  resulted  in 
the  emancipation  of  this  type  of  building  from  an 
absurd  and  impossible  convention- — the  practice, 
common  before  his  time,  of  piling  order  upon  or- 
der, like  a  house  of  cards,  or  by  a  succession  of 
strongly  marked  string  courses  emphasizing  the 
horizontal  dimension  of  a  vertical  edifice,  thus  viti- 
ating the  finest  effect  of  which  such  a  building  is 
capable. 

The  problem  of  the  tall  building,  with  which  his 
[14] 


PLATE    III.  THE    PRUDENTIAL    BUILDING,    BUFFALO,    N.    Y. 


Before  the  War 


predecessors  dealt  always  with  trepidation  and 
equivocation,  Mr.  Sullivan  approached  with  confi- 
dence and  joy.  "What,"  he  asked  himself,  "is  the 
chief  characteristic  of  the  tall  office  building?  It 
is  lofty.  This  loftiness  is  to  the  artist-nature  its 
thrilling  aspect.  It  must  be  tall.  The  force  of  al- 
titude must  be  in  it.  It  must  be  every  inch  a  proud 
and  soaring  thing,  rising  in  sheer  exultation  that 
from  bottom  to  top  it  is  a  unit  without  a  dissenting 
line."  The  Prudential  (Guaranty)  building  in 
Buffalo  represents  the  finest  concrete  embodiment 
of  his  idea  achieved  by  Mr.  Sullivan.  It  marks 
his  emancipation  from  what  he  calls  his  "masonry" 
period,  during  which  he  tried,  like  so  many  other 
architects  before  and  since,  to  make  a  steel-framed 
structure  look  as  though  it  were  nothing  but  a  ma- 
sonry wall  perforated  with  openings — openings  too 
many  and  too  great  not  to  endanger  its  stability. 
The  keen  blade  of  Mr.  Sullivan's  mind  cut  through 
this  contradiction,  and  in  the  Prudential  building 
he  carried  out  the  idea  of  a  protective  casing  so  suc- 
cessfully that  Montgomery  Schuyler  said  of  it,  "I 
know  of  no  steel  framed  building  in  which  the  me- 
tallic construction  is  more  palpably  felt  through  the 
envelope  of  baked  clay." 

The  present  author  can  speak  with  all  humble- 

[17] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


ness  of  the  general  failure,  on  the  part  of  the  ar- 
chitectural profession,  to  appreciate  the  importance 
of  this  achievement,  for  he  pleads  guilty  of  day 
after  day  having  passed  the  Prudential  building, 
then  fresh  in  the  majesty  of  its  soaring  lines,  and  in 
the  wonder  of  its  fire-wrought  casing,  with  eyes  and 
admiration  only  for  the  false  romanticism  of  the 
Erie  County  Savings  Bank,  and  the  empty  bombast 
of  the  gigantic  Ellicott  Square.  He  had  not  at 
that  period  of  his  life  succeeded  in  living  down  his 
architectural  training,  and  as  a  result  the  most 
ignorant  layman  was  in  a  better  position  to  appraise 
tlie  relative  merits  of  these  three  so  different  in- 
carnations of  the  building  impulse  than  was  he. 

Since  the  Prudential  building  there  have  been 
other  tall  office  buildings,  by  other  hands,  truthful 
in  the  main,  less  rigid,  less  monotonous,  more  su- 
perficially pleasing,  yet  they  somehow  fail  to  im- 
part the  feeling  of  utter  sincerity  and  fresh  origi- 
nality inspired  by  this  building.  One  feels  that 
here  democracy  has  at  last  found  utterance  in 
beauty;  the  American  spirit  speaks,  the  spirit  of 
the  Long  Denied.  This  rude,  rectangular  bulk  is 
uncompromisingly  practical  and  utilitarian;  these 
rows  on  rows  of  windows,  regularly  spaced,  and 
all  of  the  same  size,  suggest  the  equality  and  monot- 
[18] 


Before  the  War 


ony  of  obscure,  laborious  lives;  the  upspringing 
shafts  of  the  vertical  piers  stand  for  their  hopes  and 
aspirations,  and  the  unobtrusive,  delicate  ornament 
which  covers  the  whole  with  a  garment  of  fresh 
beauty  is  like  the  very  texture  of  their  dreams. 
The  building  is  able  to  speak  thus  powerfully  to 
the  imagination  because  its  creator  is  a  poet  and 
prophet  of  democracy.  In  his  own  chosen  lan- 
guage he  declares,  as  Whitman  did  in  verse,  his 
faith  in  the  people  of  "these  states" — "A  Nation 
announcing  itself."  Others  will  doubtless  follow 
who  will  make  a  richer  music,  commensurate  with 
the  future's  richer  life,  but  such  democracy  as  is 
ours  stands  here  proclaimed,  just  as  such  feudalism 
as  is  still  ours  stands  proclaimed  in  the  Erie  County 
Bank  just  across  the  way.  The  massive  rough 
stone  walls  of  this  building,  its  pointed  towers  and 
many  dormered  chateau-like  roof  unconsciously 
symbolize  the  attempt  to  impose  upon  the  living 
present  a  moribund  and  alien  order.  Democracy 
is  thus  afflicted,  and  the  fact  must  needs  find  archi- 
tectural expression. 

In  the  field  of  domestic  architecture  these  dra- 
matic contrasts  are  less  evident,  less  sharply 
marked.  Domestic  life  varies  little  from  age  to 
age;  a  cottage  is  a  cottage  the  world  over,  and  some 

[19] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


manorial  mansion  on  the  James  River,  buih  in  Co- 
lonial days,  remains  a  fitting  habitation  (assum- 
ing the  addition  of  electric  lights  and  sanitary 
plumbing)  for  one  of  our  Captains  of  Industry, 
however  little  an  ancient  tobacco  warehouse  would 
serve  him  as  a  place  of  business.  This  fact  is  so 
well  recognized  that  the  finest  type  of  modem  coun- 
try house  follows,  in  general,  this  or  some  other 
equally  admirable  model,  though  it  is  amusing  to 
note  the  millionaire's  preference  for  a  feudal  cas- 
tle, a  French  chateau,  or  an  Italian  villa  of  the  de- 
cadence. 

The  "man  of  moderate  means,"  so  called,  pro- 
vides himself  with  no  difficulty  with  a  comfortable 
house,  undistinguished  but  unpretentious,  which  fits 
him  like  a  glove.  There  is  a  piazza  towards  the 
street,  a  bay-window  in  the  living  room,  a  sleeping- 
porch  for  the  children,  and  a  box  of  a  garage  for 
the  flivver  in  the  bit  of  a  back  yard. 

For  the  wage  earner  the  housing  problem  is  not 
so  easily  nor  so  successfully  solved.  He  is  usually 
between  the  devil  of  the  speculative  builder  and 
the  deep  sea  of  the  predatory  landlord,  each  intent 
upon  taking  from  him  the  limit  that  the  law  allows 
and  giving  him  as  little  as  possible  for  his  money. 
Going  down  the  scale  of  indigence  we  find  an  itiner- 
[20] 


PLATE    IV.    THE   ERIE   COUNTY   SAVINGS    BANK,    BUFFALO,   N.  Y. 


Before  the  War 


ancy  amounting  almost  to  homelessness,  or  houses 
so  abject  that  they  are  an  insult  to  the  very  name  of 
home. 

It  is  an  eloquent  commentary  upon  our  national 
attitude  toward  a  most  vital  matter  that  in  this 
feverish  hustle  to  produce  ships,  airplanes,  cloth- 
ing and  munitions  on  a  vast  scale,  the  housing  of 
the  workers  was  either  overlooked  entirely,  or  re- 
ceived eleventh-hour  consideration,  and  only  now, 
after  a  year  of  participation  in  the  war,  is  it  begin- 
ning to  be  adequately  and  officially  dealt  with — 
how  efficiently  and  intelligently  remains  to  be  seen. 
The  housing  of  the  soldiers  was  another  matter: 
that  necessity  was  plain  and  urgent,  and  the 
miracle  has  been  accomplished,  but  except  by  in- 
direction it  has  contributed  nothing  to  the  perma- 
nent housing  problem. 

Other  aspects  of  our  life  which  have  found  archi- 
tectural expression  fall  neither  in  the  commercial 
nor  in  the  domestic  category — the  great  hotels,  for 
example,  which  partake  of  the  nature  of  both,  and 
our  passenger  railway  terminals,  which  partake  of 
the  nature  of  neither.  These  latter  deserve  es- 
pecial consideration  in  this  connection,  by  reason 
of  their  important  function.  The  railway  is  of  the 
very  essence  of  the  modem,  even  though  (with  what 

[23] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 

sublime  unreason)  Imperial  Rome  is  written  large 
over  New  York's  most  magnificent  portal. 

Think  not  that  in  an  age  of  unfaith  mankind 
gives  up  the  building  of  temples.  Temples  inevi- 
tably arise  where  the  tide  of  life  flows  strongest; 
for  there  God  manifests,  in  however  strange  a  guise. 
That  tide  is  nowhere  stronger  than  in  the  railroad, 
which  is  the  arterial  system  of  our  civilization. 
All  arteries  lead  to  and  from  the  heart,  and  thus  the 
railroad  terminus  becomes  the  beating  heart  at  the 
center  of  modern  life.  It  is  a  true  instinct  there- 
fore which  prompts  to  the  making  of  the  terminal 
building  a  very  temple,  a  monument  to  the  con- 
quest of  space  through  tlie  harnessing  of  the  giant 
horses  of  electricity  and  steam.  This  conquest 
must  be  celebrated  on  a  scale  commensurate  with 
its  importance,  and  in  obedience  to  this  necessity 
the  Pennsylvania  station  raised  its  proud  head  amid 
the  push-cart  architecture  of  that  portion  of  New 
York  in  which  it  stands.  It  is  not  therefore  open 
to  the  criticism  often  passed  upon  it,  that  it  is  too 
grand,  but  it  is  the  wrong  kind  of  grandeur.  If 
there  be  truth  in  the  contention  that  the  living  needs 
of  today  cannot  be  grafted  upon  the  dead  stump  of 
any  ancient  grandeur,  the  futility  of  every  attempt 
to  accomplish  tliis  impossible  will  somehow,  some- 
[24] 


Before  the  War 


where,  reveal  itself  to  the  discerning  eye.  Let  us 
seek  out,  in  this  building,  the  place  of  this  betrayal. 
It  is  not  necessarily  in  the  main  fagade,  diough 
this  is  not  a  face,  but  a  mask — and  a  mask  can, 
after  its  kind,  always  be  made  beautiful;  it  is  not 
in  the  nobly  vaulted  corridor,  lined  with  shops — 
for  all  we  know  the  arcades  of  Imperial  Rome  were 
similarly  lined;  nor  is  it  in  the  splendid  vestibule, 
leading  into  the  magnificent  waiting  room,  in  which 
a  subject  of  the  Caesars  would  have  felt  more  per- 
fectly at  home,  perhaps,  than  do  we.  But  beyond 
this  passenger  concourse,  where  the  elevators  and 
stairways  descend  to  the  tracks,  necessity  demanded 
the  construction  of  a  great  enclosure,  supported 
only  on  slender  columns  and  far-flung  trusses 
roofed  with  glass.  Now  latticed  columns,  steel 
trusses,  and  wire  glass  are  inventions  of  the  modem 
world  too  useful  to  be  dispensed  with.  Rome 
could  not  help  the  architect  here.  The  mode  to 
which  he  was  inexorably  self -committed  in  the  rest 
of  the  building  demanded  massive  masonry,  cor- 
nices, mouldings;  a  tribute  to  Caesar  which  could 
be  paid  everywhere  but  in  this  place.  The  archi- 
tect's problem  then  became  to  reconcile  two  diamet- 
rically different  systems.  But  between  the  west 
wall  of  the  ancient  Roman  baths  and  the  modem 

[25] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


skeleton  construction  of  the  roof  of  the  human 
greenhouse  tliere  is  no  attempt  at  fusion.  The 
slender  latticed  columns  cut  unpleasantly  through 
the  granite  cornices  and  mouldings;  the  first  cen- 
tury A.  D.  and  the  twentieth  are  here  in  incongruous 
juxtaposition — a  little  thing,  easily  overlooked,  yet 
how  revealing!  How  reassuring  of  the  fact  "God 
is  not  mocked!" 

The  New  York  Central  terminal  speaks  to  the  eye 
in  a  modem  tongue,  with  however  French  an  accent. 
Its  facade  suggests  a  portal,  reminding  the  be- 
holder that  a  railway  station  is  in  a  very  literal 
sense  a  city  gate  placed  just  as  appropriately  in 
the  center  of  the  municipality  as  in  ancient  times 
it  was  placed  in  the  circuit  of  the  outer  walls. 

Neither  edifice  will  stand  the  acid  test  of  Mr. 
Sullivan's  formula,  that  a  building  is  an  organism 
and  should  follow  the  law  of  organisms,  which  de- 
crees that  the  form  must  everywhere  follow  and  ex- 
press the  function,  the  function  determining  and 
creating  its  appropriate  form.  Here  are  two  emi- 
nent examples  of  "arranged"  architecture.  Before 
organic  architecture  can  come  into  being  our  incho- 
ate national  life  must  itself  become  organic.  Ar- 
ranged architecture,  of  the  sort  we  see  everywhere, 
[26] 


Before  the  War 


despite  its  falsity,  is  a  true  expression  of  the  condi- 
tions which  gave  it  birth. 

The  grandeur  of  Rome,  the  splendour  of  Paris 
— what  just  and  adequate  expression  do  they  give 
of  modem  American  life?  Then  shall  we  find  in 
our  great  hotels,  say,  such  expression?  Truly  they 
represent,  in  the  phrase  of  Henry  James,  "a  real- 
ized ideal"  and  a  study  of  them  should  reveal  that 
ideal.  From  such  a  study  we  can  only  conclude 
that  it  is  life  without  effort  or  responsibility,  with 
every  physical  need  luxuriously  gratified.  But 
these  hotels  nevertheless  represent  democracy,  it 
may  be  urged,  for  the  reason  that  every  one  may 
there  buy  board  and  lodging  and  mercenary  service 
if  he  has  the  price.  The  exceeding  greatness  of 
that  price,  however,  makes  of  it  a  badge  of  nobility 
which  converts  these  democratic  hostelries  into  feu- 
dal castles,  more  inaccessible  to  the  Long  Denied 
than  as  though  entered  by  a  drawbridge  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  moat. 

We  need  not  even  glance  at  the  churches,  for  the 
tides  of  our  spiritual  life  flow  no  longer  in  full  vol- 
ume through  their  portals ;  neither  may  the  colleges 
long  detain  us,  for  architecturally  considered  they 
give  forth  a  confusion  of  tongues  which  has  its 

[29] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


analogue  in  die  confusion  of  ideas  in  the  collective 
academic  head. 

Is  our  search  for  some  sign  of  democracy  ended, 
and  is  it  vain?  No,  democracy  exists  in  the  secret 
heart  of  the  people,  all  the  people,  but  it  is  a 
thing  so  new,  so  strange,  so  secret  and  sacred — the 
ideal  of  brotherhood — that  it  is  unmanifest  yet  in 
time  and  space.  It  is  a  thing  bom  not  with  the 
Declaration  of  Independence,  but  only  yesterday, 
with  the  call  to  a  new  crusade.  The  National 
Army  is  its  cradle,  and  it  is  nurtured  wherever  com- 
munities unite  to  serve  the  sacred  cause.  Although 
menaced  by  the  bloody  sword  of  Imperialism  in 
Europe,  it  perhaps  stands  in  no  less  danger  from 
the  secret  poison  of  graft  and  greed  and  treachery 
here  at  home.  But  it  is  a  spiritual  birth,  and  there- 
fore it  cannot  perish,  but  will  live  to  write  itself  on 
space  in  terms  of  beauty  such  as  the  world  has 
never  known. 


[30] 


II 

DURING  THE  WAR 

THE  best  thing  that  can  be  said  about  our  im- 
mediate architectural  past  is  that  it  is  past, 
for  it  has  contributed  little  of  value  to  an 
architecture  of  democracy.  During  that  neo-feu- 
dal  period  the  architect  prospered,  having  his  place 
at  the  baronial  table;  but  now  poor  Tom's  a-cold  on 
a  war-swept  heath,  with  food  only  for  reflection. 
This  is  but  natural;  the  architect,  in  so  far  as  he  is 
an  artist,  is  a  purveyor  of  beauty;  and  the  abnormal 
conditions  inevitable  to  a  state  of  war  are  devastat- 
ing to  so  feminine  and  tender  a  thing,  even  though 
war  be  the  very  soil  from  which  new  beauty  springs. 
With  Mars  in  mid-heaven  how  afflicted  is  the  horo- 
scope of  all  artists!  The  skilled  hand  of  the  musi- 
cian is  put  to  coarser  uses;  the  eye  that  learned  its 
lessons  from  the  sunset  must  learn  the  trick  of  mak- 
ing invisible  warships  and  great  guns.  Let  the 
architect  serve  the  war-god  likewise,  in  any  capacity 
that  offers,  confident  that  this  troubling  of  the  wa- 

[31] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 

ters  will  bring  about  a  new  precipitation ;  that  once 
the  war  is  over,  men  will  turn  from  those  "old, 
unhappy,  far-off  things"  to  pastures  beautiful  and 
new. 

Ill  whatever  way  the  war  may  complicate  the 
architect's  personal  problem,  it  should  simplify 
and  clarify  his  attitude  toward  his  art.  With  no 
matter  what  seriousness  and  sincerity  he  may  have 
undertaken  his  personal  search  for  truth  and 
beauty,  he  will  come  to  question,  as  never  before, 
both  its  direction  and  its  results.  He  is  bound  to 
perceive,  if  he  does  not  perceive  already,  that  the 
war's  arrestment  of  architecture  (in  all  but  its  most 
utilitarian  and  ephemeral  phases)  is  no  great  loss 
to  the  world  for  the  reason  that  our  architecture 
was  uninspired,  unoriginal,  done  without  joy,  with- 
out reverence,  without  conviction:  a  thing  which 
any  wind  of  a  new  spirit  was  bound  to  make  ap- 
pear foolish  to  a  generation  with  sight  rendered 
clairvoyant  through  its  dedication  to  great  and  re- 
generative ends. 

He  will  come  to  perceive  that  between  the  Civil 
War  and  the  crusade  that  is  now  upon  us,  we  were 
under  the  evil  spell  of  materialism.  Now  mate- 
rialism is  the  very  negation  of  democracy,  which 
is  a  government  by  the  demos,  or  over-soul;  it  is 
[32] 


During  the  War 


equally  the  negation  of  joy,  the  negation  of  rever- 
ence, and  it  is  without  conviction  because  it  cannot 
believe  even  in  itself.  Reflecting  thus,  he  can 
scarcely  fail  to  realize  that  materialism,  every- 
where entrenched,  was  entrenched  strongest  in  the 
camps  of  the  rich — not  the  idle  rich,  for  material- 
ism is  so  terrible  a  taskmaster  that  it  makes  its  vo- 
taries its  slaves.  These  slaves,  in  turn,  made  a 
slave  of  the  artist,  a  minister  to  their  pride  and 
pretence.  His  art  thus  lacked  that  "sad  sincerity" 
which  alone  might  have  saved  it  in  a  crisis.  When 
the  storm  broke  militant  democracy  turned  to  the 
engineer,  who  produced  buildings  at  record  speed, 
by  the  mile,  with  only  such  architectural  assistance 
as  could  be  first  and  easiest  fished  up  from  the  drag- 
net of  the  draft. 

In  one  direction  only  does  there  appear  to  be 
open  water.  Toward  the  general  housing  problem 
the  architectural  profession  has  been  spurred  into 
activity  by  reason  of  the  war,  and  to  its  credit  be  it 
said,  it  is  now  thoroughly  aroused.  The  American 
Institute  of  Architects  sent  a  commissioner  to  Eng- 
land to  study  housing  in  its  latest  manifestations, 
and  some  of  the  ablest  and  most  influential  mem- 
bers of  that  organization  have  placed  their  services 
at   the   disposal    of   the    government.     Moreover, 

[33] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


there  is  a  manifest  disposition,  on  the  part  of  archi- 
tects everywhere,  to  help  in  this  matter  all  they  can. 
The  danger  dwells  in  the  possibility  that  their  ad- 
vice will  not  be  heeded,  their  services  not  be  fully 
utilized,  but  through  chicanery,  ignorance,  or  inani- 
tion, we  will  relapse  into  the  tentative,  "expensively 
provisional"  methods  which  have  governed  the 
housing  of  workers  hitherto.  Even  so,  architects 
will  doubtless  recapture,  and  more  than  recapture, 
their  imperiled  prestige,  but  under  what  changed 
conditions,  and  with  what  an  altered  attitude  to- 
ward their  art  and  their  craft! 

They  will  find  that  they  must  unlearn  certain 
things  the  schools  had  taught  them:  preoccupation 
with  the  relative  merits  of  Gothic  and  Classic — 
tweedledum  and  tweedledee.  Furthermore,  they 
must  learn  certain  neglected  lessons  from  the  engi- 
neer, lessons  that  they  will  be  able  immeasurably 
to  better,  for  although  the  engineer  is  a  very  mon- 
ster of  competence  and  efficiency  within  his  limits, 
these  are  sharply  marked,  and  to  any  detailed 
knowledge  of  that  "beautiful  necessity"  which  de- 
termines spatial  rhythm  and  counterpoint  he  is  a 
stranger.  The  ideal  relation  between  architect 
and  engineer  is  that  of  a  happily  wedded  pair — 
strength  married  to  beauty;  in  the  period  just 
[34] 


PLATE   VI. 
PLAN    OF    THE    RED    CROSS    COM  M  UNITY    CLUB    HOUSE, 
CAMP    SHERMAN,    OHIO 


^ 


During  the  War 


passed  or  passing  they  have  been  as  disgruntled 
divorces. 

The  author  has  in  mind  one  child  of  such  a  happy 
union  brought  about  by  the  war;  the  building  is 
the  Red  Cross  Community  Club  House  at  Camp 
Sherman,  which,  in  the  pursuit  of  his  destiny,  and 
for  the  furtherance  of  his  education,  he  inhabited 
for  two  memorable  weeks.  He  learned  there  more 
lessons  than  a  few,  and  encountered  more  tangled 
skeins  of  destiny  than  he  is  ever  likely  to  unravel. 
The  matter  has  so  direct  a  bearing,  both  on  the 
subject  of  architecture  and  of  democracy,  that  it  is 
worth  discussing  at  some  length. 

This  club  house  stands,  surrounded  by  its  tribu- 
tary dormitories,  on  a  government  reservation,  im- 
mediately adjacent  to  the  camp  itself,  the  whole 
constituting  what  is  known  as  the  Community  Cen- 
ter. By  the  payment  of  a  dollar  any  soldier  is 
free  to  entertain  his  relatives  and  friends  there,  and 
it  is  open  to  all  the  soldiers  at  all  times.  Because 
the  iron  discipline  of  the  army  is  relaxed  as  soon 
as  the  limits  of  the  camp  are  overpassed,  the  at- 
mosphere is  favourable  to  social  life. 

The  building  occupies  its  acre  of  ground  invit- 
ingly, though  exteriorly  of  no  particular  distinction. 
It  is  the  interior  that  entitles  it  to  consideration  as 

[37] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


a  contribution  to  an  architecture  of  that  new-bom 
democracy  of  which  our  army  camps  have  been  the 
cradle.  The  plan  of  this  interior  is  cruciform,  two 
hundred  feet  in  each  dimension.  Built  by  the  Red 
Cross  of  the  state  of  Ohio,  and  dedicated  to  the 
larger  uses  of  that  organization,  the  symbolic  ap- 
propriateness of  this  particular  geometrical  figure 
should  not  pass  unremarked.  The  cross  is  divided 
into  side  aisles,  nave,  and  crossing,  with  galleries 
and  mezzanines  so  arranged  as  to  shorten  the  arms 
of  the  cross  in  its  upper  stages,  leaving  the  clear- 
story surrounding  the  crossing  unimpeded  and  well 
defined.  The  light  comes  for  the  most  part  from 
high  windows,  filtering  down,  in  tempered  bright- 
ness to  the  floor.  The  bones  of  the  structure  are 
everywhere  in  evidence,  and  an  element  of  its 
beauty,  by  reason  of  the  admirably  direct  and  log- 
ical arrangement  of  posts  and  trusses.  The  verti- 
cal walls  are  covered  with  plaster-board  of  a  light 
buff  color,  converted  into  good  sized  panels  by 
means  of  wooden  strips  finished  with  a  thin  grey 
stain.  The  structural  wood  work  is  stained  in 
similar  fashion,  the  iron  rods,  straps,  and  bolts  be- 
ing painted  black.  This  color  scheme  is  com- 
pleted and  a  little  enlivened  by  red  stripes  and 
[38] 


During  the  War 


crosses  placed  at  appropriate  intervals  in  the  gen- 
eral design. 

The  building  attained  its  final  synthesis  through 
the  collaboration  of  a  Cleveland  architect  and  a 
National  Army  captain  of  engineers.  It  is  so  sin- 
gle in  its  appeal  that  one  does  not  care  to  inquire 
too  closely  into  the  part  of  each  in  the  perform- 
ance; both  are  in  evidence,  for  an  architect  seldom 
succeeds  in  being  so  direct  and  simple,  while  an 
engineer  seldom  succeeds  in  being  so  gracious  and 
altogether  suave. 

Entirely  aside  from  its  aesthetic  interest — based 
as  this  is  on  beauty  of  organism  almost  alone — 
the  building  is  notable  for  the  success  with  which 
it  fulfils  and  co-ordinates  its  manifold  functions: 
those  of  a  dormitory,  a  restaurant,  a  ballroom,  a 
theatre,  and  a  lounge.  The  arm  of  the  cross  con- 
taining the  principal  entrance  accommodates  the 
office,  coat  room,  telephones,  news  and  cigar  stand, 
while  leaving  the  central  nave  unimpeded,  so  that 
from  the  door  one  gets  the  unusual  effect  of  an 
interior  vista  two  hundred  feet  long.  The  restaur- 
ant occupies  the  entire  left  transept,  with  a  great 
brick  fireplace  at  the  far  end.  There  is  another 
fireplace  in  the  centre  of  the  side  of  the  arm  be- 

[39] 


vVrchitecture  and  Democracy 


yond  the  crossing;  that  part  which  would  corre- 
spond in  a  cathedral  to  the  choir  and  apse  being 
given  over  to  the  uses  of  a  reading  and  writing 
room.  The  right  transept  forms  a  theatre,  on  oc- 
casion, terminating  as  it  does  with  a  stage.  The 
central  floor  spaces  are  kept  everywhere  free  except 
in  the  restaurant,  the  sides  and  angles  being  filled 
in  with  leather-covered  sofas,  wicker  and  wooden 
chairs  and  tables,  arranged  in  groups  favourable 
to  comfort  and  conversation.  Two  stairways,  at 
the  right  and  left  of  the  restaurant,  give  access  to 
the  ample  balcony  and  to  the  bedrooms,  which  oc- 
cupy three  of  the  four  ends  of  the  arms  of  the  cross 
at  this  level. 

The  appearance  and  atmosphere  of  this  great 
interior  is  inspiring;  particularly  of  an  evening, 
when  it  is  thronged  with  soldiers,  and  civilian 
guests.  The  strains  of  music,  the  hum  of  many 
voices,  the  rhythmic  shuffle  on  the  waxed  floor  of 
the  feet  of  the  dancers — these  eminently  social 
sounds  mingle  and  lose  themselves  in  the  spaces  of 
the  roof,  like  the  voice  of  many  waters.  Tobacco 
smoke  ascends  like  incense,  blue  above  the  prevail- 
ing green-brown  of  the  crowd,  shot  here  and  there 
with  brighter  colors  from  the  women's  hats  and 
dresses,  in  the  kaleidoscopic  shifting  of  the  dance. 
[40] 


During  the  War 


Long  parallel  rows  of  orange  lights,  grouped  low 
down  on  the  lofty  pillars,  reflect  themselves  on 
the  polished  floor,  and  like  the  patina  of  time  on 
painted  canvas  impart  to  the  entire  animated  pic- 
ture an  incomparable  tone.  For  the  lighting, 
either  by  accident  or  by  inspiration,  is  an  achieve- 
ment of  the  happiest,  an  example  of  the  friendli- 
ness of  fate  to  him  who  attempts  a  free  solution 
of  his  problem.  The  brackets  consist  merely  of  a 
cruciform  arrangement  of  planed  pine  boards 
about  each  column,  with  the  end  grain  painted  red. 
On  the  under  side  of  each  arm  of  the  cross  is  a 
single  electric  bulb  enclosed  within  an  orange-col- 
oured shade  to  kill  the  glare.  The  light  makes  the 
bare  wood  of  the  fixture  appear  incandescent,  defin- 
ing its  geometry  in  rose  colour  with  the  most  beau- 
tiful eff"ect. 

The  club  house  is  the  centre  of  the  social  and 
ceremonial  life  of  the  camp,  for  balls,  dinners,  re- 
ceptions, conferences,  concerts  without  number; 
and  it  has  been  the  scene  of  a  military  wedding — 
the  daughter  of  a  major-general  to  the  grandson  of 
an  ex-president.  To  these  events  the  unassuming, 
but  pervasive  beauty  of  the  place  lends  a  dignity 
new  to  our  social  life.  In  our  army  camps  social 
life  is  truly  democratic,  as  any  one  who  has  experi- 

[41] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


enced  it  does  not  need  to  be  told.  Not  alone  have 
the  conditions  of  conscription  conspired  to  make  it 
so,  but  there  is  a  manifest  will-to-democracy — the 
growing  of  a  new  flower  of  the  spirit,  sown  in  a 
community  of  sacrifice,  to  reach  its  maturity,  per- 
haps, only  in  a  community  of  suff^ering. 

The  author  may  seem  to  have  over-praised  this 
Community  Club  House;  with  the  whole  country 
to  draw  from  for  examples  it  may  well  appear 
fatuous  to  concentrate  the  reader's  attention,  for  so 
long,  on  a  building  in  a  remote  part  of  the  Middle 
West:  cheap,  temporary,  and  requiring  only  twenty- 
one  days  for  its  erection.  But  of  the  transvalua- 
tion  of  values  brought  about  by  the  war,  this  build- 
ing is  an  eminent  example:  it  stands  in  symbolic 
relation  to  the  times;  it  represents  what  may  be 
called  the  architecture  of  Service;  it  is  among  the 
first  of  the  new  temples  of  the  new  democracy,  ded- 
icated to  the  uses  of  simple,  rational  social  life. 
Notwithstanding  that  it  fills  a  felt  need,  common 
to  every  community,  there  is  nothing  like  it  in  any 
of  our  towns  and  cities;  there  are  only  such  poor 
and  partial  substitutes  as  the  hotel,  the  saloon, 
the  dance  hall,  the  lodge  room  and  the  club.  It  is 
scarcely  conceivable  that  the  men  and  women  who 
have  experienced  its  benefits  and  its  beauty  should 
[42] 


PLATE   VII.      INTERIOR    OF    THE    CAMP    SHERMAN    COMMUNITY     HOUSE 


During  the  War 


not  demand  and  have  similar  buildings  in  their 
own  home  towns. 

Beyond  the  oasis  of  the  Community  Club  House 
at  Camp  Sherman  stretch  the  cantonments — a  Eu- 
clidian nightmare  of  bare  boards,  black  roofs  and 
ditches,  making  grim  vistas  of  straight  lines.  This 
is  the  architecture  of  Need  in  contradistinction  to 
the  architecture  of  Greed,  symbolized  in  the  shop- 
window  prettiness  of  those  sanitary  suburbs  of  our 
cities  created  by  the  real  estate  agent  and  the  spec- 
ulative builder.  Neither  contain  any  enduring  ele- 
ment of  beauty. 

But  the  love  of  beauty  in  one  form  or  another 
exists  in  every  human  heart,  and  if  too  long  or 
too  rigorously  denied  it  finds  its  own  channels  of 
fulfilment.  This  desire  for  self-expression  through 
beauty  is  an  important,  though  little  remarked 
phenomenon  of  these  mid-war  times.  At  the 
camps  it  shows  itself  in  the  efforts  of  men  of 
specialized  tastes  and  talents  to  get  together  and 
form  dramatic  organizations,  glee  clubs,  and  or- 
chestras; and  more  generally  by  the  disposition  of 
the  soldiers  to  sing  together  at  work  and  play  and 
on  the  march.  The  renascence  of  poetry  can  be 
interpreted  as  a  revulsion  against  the  prevailing 
prosiness;  the  amateur  theatre  is  equally  a  protest 

[45] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


against  the  inanity  and  conventionality  of  the  com- 
mercial stage;  while  the  Community  Chorus  move- 
ment is  an  evidence  of  a  desire  to  escape  a  narrow 
professionalism  in  music.  A  similar  situation  has 
arisen  in  the  field  of  domestic  architecture,  in  the 
form  of  an  unorganized,  but  wide-spread  reaction 
against  the  cheap  and  ugly  commercialism  which 
has  dominated  house  construction  and  decoration 
of  the  more  unpretentious  class.  This  became 
articulate  a  few  years  ago  in  the  large  number 
of  books  and  magazines  devoted  to  house-planning, 
construction,  decoration,  furnishing,  and  garden- 
craft.  The  success  which  has  attended  these  pub- 
lications, and  their  marked  influence,  give  some 
measure  of  the  magnitude  of  this  revolt. 

But  now  attention  must  be  called  to  a  significant, 
and  somewhat  sinister  fact.  The  professional  in 
these  various  fields  of  aesthetic  endeavour,  has 
shown  either  indiff^erence  or  active  hostility  toward 
all  manner  of  amateur  efl'orts  at  self-expression. 
Free  verse  aroused  the  ridicule  of  the  professors  of 
metrics;  the  Little  Theatre  movement  was  solemnly 
banned  by  such  pundits  as  Belasco  and  Mrs.  Fiske; 
the  Community  Chorus  movement  has  invariably 
met  with  opposition  and  misunderstanding  from 
professional  musicians;  and  with  few  exceptions 
[46] 


During  the  War 


the  more  influential  architects  have  remained  aloof 
from  the  effort  to  give  skilled  architectural  assist- 
ance to  those  who  cannot  aff"ord  to  pay  them  ten 
per  cent. 

Thus  everywhere  do  we  discover  a  deadening 
hand  laid  upon  the  self-expression  of  the  demo- 
cratic spirit  through  beauty.  Its  enemies  are  of  its 
own  household;  those  who  by  nature  and  training 
should  be  its  helpers  hinder  it  instead.  Why  do 
they  do  this?  Because  their  fastidious,  aesthetic 
natures  are  outraged  by  a  crudeness  which  they 
themselves  could  easily  refine  away  if  they  chose; 
because  also  they  recoil  at  a  lack  of  conformity  to 
existing  conventions — conventions  so  hampering  to 
the  inner  spirt  of  the  Newness,  that  in  order  to 
incarnate  at  all  it  must  of  necessity  sweep  them 
aside. 

But  in  every  field  of  aesthetic  endeavour  appears 
here  and  there  a  man  or  a  woman  with  unclouded 
vision,  who  is  able  to  see  in  the  flounderings  of 
untrained  amateurs  the  stirrings  of  demos  from 
his  age-long  sleep.  These,  often  forsaking  paths 
more  profitable,  lend  their  skilled  assistance,  not 
seeking  to  impose  the  ancient  outworn  forms  upon 
the  Newness,  but  by  a  transfusion  of  consciousness 
permitting  it  to  create  forms  of  its  own.     Such  a 

[47] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


one,  in  architecture,  Louis  Sullivan  has  proved 
himself;  in  music  Harry  Barnhart,  who  evokes  the 
very  spirit  of  song  from  any  random  crowd.  The 
demos  found  voice  first  in  the  poetry  of  Walt  Whit- 
man who  has  a  successor  in  Vachel  Lindsay,  the 
man  who  walked  through  Kansas,  trading  poetry 
for  food  and  lodging,  teaching  the  farmers'  sons 
and  daughters  to  intone  his  stirring  odes  to  Poca- 
hontas, General  Booth,  and  Old  John  Brown.  Isa- 
dora Duncan,  Gordon  Craig,  Maeterlinck,  Scriab- 
ine  are  perhaps  too  remote  from  the  spirit  of 
democracy,  too  tinged  with  old-world  aestheticism, 
to  be  included  in  this  particular  category,  but  all 
are  image-breakers,  liberators,  and  have  played 
their  part  in  the  preparation  of  the  field  for  an  art 
of  democracy. 

To  the  architect  falls  the  task,  in  the  new  dispen- 
sation, of  providing  the  appropriate  material  en- 
vironment for  its  new  life.  If  he  holds  the  old 
ideas  and  cherishes  the  old  convictions  current  be- 
fore the  war  he  can  do  nothing  but  reproduce  their 
forms  and  fashions;  for  architecture,  in  the  last 
analysis,  is  only  the  handwriting  of  consciousness 
on  space,  and  materialism  has  written  there  al- 
ready all  that  it  has  to  tell  of  its  failure  to  satisfy 
the  mind  and  heart  of  man.  However  beautiful 
[48] 


During  the  War 


old  forms  may  seem  to  him  they  will  declare  their 
inadequacy  to  generations  free  of  that  mist  of  fa- 
miliarity which  now  makes  life  obscure.  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  submitting  himself  to  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  demos  he  experiences  a  change  of  con- 
sciousness, he  will  become  truly  and  newly  crea- 
tive. 

His  problem,  in  other  words,  is  not  to  interpret 
democracy  in  terms  of  existing  idioms,  be  they 
classic  or  romantic,  but  to  experience  democracy 
in  his  heart  and  let  it  create  and  determine  its  new 
forms  through  him.  It  is  not  for  him  to  impose, 
it  is  for  him  to  be  imposed  upon. 

"The  passive  Master  lent  his  hand 

To  the  vast  soul  that  o'er  him  planned" 

says  Emerson  in  The  Problem,  a  poem,  which 
seems  particularly  addressed  to  architects,  and 
which  every  one  of  them  would  do  well  to  learn  by 
heart. 

If  he  is  at  a  loss  to  know  where  to  go  and  what 
to  do  in  order  to  be  played  upon  by  these  great 
forces  let  him  direct  his  attention  to  the  army  and 
the  army  camps.  Here  the  spirit  of  democracy  is 
already  incarnate.  These  soldiers,  violently 
shaken  free  from  their  environment,  stripped  of 

[49] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


all  but  the  elemental  necessities  of  life;  facing  a 
sinister  destiny  beyond  a  human-shark-infested 
ocean,  are  today  the  fortunate  of  earth  by  reason  of 
their  realization  of  brotherhood,  not  as  a  beautiful 
theory,  but  as  a  blessed  fact  of  experience.  They 
will  come  back  with  ideas  that  they  cannot  utter, 
with  memories  that  they  cannot  describe;  they  will 
have  dreamed  dreams  and  seen  visions,  and  their 
hearts  will  stir  to  potencies  for  which  materialism 
has  not  even  a  name. 

The  future  of  the  country  will  be  in  their  young 
hands.  Will  they  re-create,  from  its  ruins,  the 
faithless  and  loveless  feudalism  from  which  the 
war  set  them  free?  No,  they  will  seek  only  for 
self-expression,  the  expression  of  that  aroused  and 
indwelling  spirit  which  shall  create  the  new,  the 
true  democracy.  And  because  it  is  a  spiritual 
thing  it  will  come  clothed  in  beauty;  that  is,  it  will 
find  its  supreme  expression  through  the  forms  of 
art.  The  architect  who  assists  in  the  emprise  of 
weaving  this  garment  will  be  supremely  blessed, 
but  only  he  who  has  kept  the  vigil  with  prayer  and 
fasting  will  be  supremely  qualified. 


[50] 


Ill 

AFTER  THE  WAR 

"When  the  old  world  is  sterile 
And  the  ages  are  effete, 
He  will   from  wrecks  and   sediment 
The  fairer  world  complete." 

The  World  Soul.     Emerson. 

HE  whom  the  World  Soul  "forbids  to  despair" 
cannot  but  hope;  and  he  who  hopes  tries 
ever  to  imagine  that  "fairer  world"  yearn- 
ing for  birth  beyond  this  interval  of  blood  and  tears. 
Prophecy,  to  all  but  the  anointed,  is  dangerous  and 
uncertain,  but  even  so,  the  author  cannot  forbear 
attempting  to  prevision  the  architecture  likely  to 
arise  from  the  wrecks  and  sediment  left  by  the  war. 
As  a  basis  for  this  forecast  it  is  necessary  first 
of  all  briefly  to  classify  the  expression  of  the  build- 
ing impulse  from  what  may  be  called  the  psycho- 
logical point  of  view. 

Broadly  speaking,  there  are  not  five  orders  of 

[51] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


architecture — nor  fifty — but  only  two:  Arranged 
and  Organic.  These  correspond  to  the  two  terms 
of  that  "inevitable  duality"  which  bisects  life. 
Talent  and  genius,  reason  and  intuition,  bromide 
and  sulphite  are  some  of  tlie  names  we  know  them 

by. 

Arranged  architecture  is  reasoned  and  artificial; 
produced  by  talent,  governed  by  taste.  Organic 
architecture,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the  product  of 
some  obscure  inner  necessity  for  self-expression 
which  is  sub-conscious.  It  is  as  though  Nature 
herself,  through  some  human  organ  of  her  activity, 
had  addressed  herself  to  the  service  of  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  men. 

Arranged  architecture  in  its  finest  manifesta- 
tions is  the  product  of  a  pride,  a  knowledge,  a  com- 
petence, a  confidence  staggering  to  behold.  It 
seems  to  say  of  the  works  of  Nature,  "I'll  show  you 
a  trick  worth  two  of  that."  For  the  subtlety  of 
Nature's  geometry,  and  for  her  infinite  variety  and 
unexpectedness.  Arranged  architecture  substitutes  a 
Euclidian  system  of  straight  lines  and  (for  the  most 
part)  circular  curves,  assembled  and  arranged  ac- 
cording to  a  definite  logic  of  its  own.  It  is  created 
but  not  creative;  it  is  imagined  but  not  imaginative. 
Organic  architecture  is  both  creative  and  imagina- 
[52] 


After  the  War 


tive.  It  is  non-Euclidian  in  the  sense  that  it  is 
higher-dimensional — that  is,  it  suggests  extension 
in  directions  and  into  regions  where  the  spirit  finds 
itself  at  home,  but  of  which  the  senses  give  no  re- 
port to  the  brain. 

To  make  the  whole  thing  clearer  it  may  be  said 
that  Arranged  and  Organic  architecture  bear  much 
the  same  relation  to  one  another  that  a  piano  bears 
to  a  violin.  A  piano  is  an  instrument  that  does 
not  give  forth  discords  if  one  follows  the  rules.  A 
violin  requires  absolutely  an  ear — an  inner  recti- 
tude. It  has  a  way  of  betraying  the  man  of  talent 
and  glorifying  the  genius,  becoming  one  with  his 
body  and  his  soul. 

Of  course  it  stands  to  reason  that  there  is  not  al- 
ways a  hard  and  fast  differentiation  between  these 
two  orders  of  architecture,  but  there  is  one  sure  way 
by  which  each  may  be  recognized  and  known.  If 
the  function  appears  to  have  created  the  form,  and 
if  everywhere  the  form  follows  the  function, 
changing  as  that  changes,  the  building  is  Organic; 
if  on  the  contrary,  "the  house  confines  the  spirit," 
if  the  building  presents  not  a  face  but  however 
beautiful  a  mask,  it  is  an  example  of  Arranged 
architecture. 

The  Gothic  cathedrals  of  the  "Heart  of  Europe" 

[55] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


— now  the  place  of  Armageddon — represent  the 
most  perfect  and  powerful  incarnation  of  the  Or- 
ganic spirit  in  architecture.  After  the  decadence 
of  mediaeval  feudalism — synchronous  with  that 
of  monasticism — the  Arranged  architecture  of 
the  Renaissance  acquired  the  ascendant;  this  was 
coincident  with  the  rise  of  humanism,  when  life 
became  increasingly  secular.  During  the  post- 
Renaissance,  or  scientific  period,  of  which  the  war 
probably  marks  the  close,  there  has  been  a  confu- 
sion of  tongues;  architecture  has  spoken  only  alien 
or  dead  languages,  learned  by  rote. 

But  in  so  far  as  it  is  anything  at  all,  aesthetically, 
our  architecture  is  Arranged,  so  if  only  by  the  oper- 
ation of  the  law  of  opposites,  or  alternation,  we 
might  reasonably  expect  the  next  manifestation  to 
be  Organic.  There  are  other  and  better  reasons, 
however,  for  such  expectancy. 

Organic  architecture  is  ever  a  flower  of  the  reli- 
gious spirit.  When  the  soul  draws  near  to  the 
surface  of  life,  as  it  did  in  the  two  mystic  centuries 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  it  organizes  life;  and  archi- 
tecture, along  with  the  other  arts  becomes  truly 
creative.  The  informing  force  comes  not  so  much 
from  man  as  through  him.  After  the  war  that 
spirit  of  brotherhood,  born  in  the  camps — as  Christ 
[56] 


After  the  War 


was  bom  in  a  manger — and  bred  on  the  battle- 
fields and  in  the  trenches  of  Europe,  is  likely  to 
take  on  all  the  attributes  of  a  new  religion  of 
humanity,  prompting  men  to  such  heroisms  and  re- 
nunciations, exciting  in  them  such  psychic  sublima- 
tions, as  have  characterized  the  great  religious  re- 
newals of  time  past. 

If  this  happens  it  is  bound  to  write  itself  on 
space  in  an  architecture  beautiful  and  new;  one 
which  "takes  its  shape  and  sun-color"  not  from  the 
niggardly  mind,  but  from  the  opulent  heart.  This 
architecture  will  of  necessity  be  organic,  the  prod- 
uct not  of  self-assertive  personalities,  but  the  work 
of  the  "Patient  Daemon"  organizing  the  nation  into 
a  spiritual  democracy. 

The  author  is  aware  that  in  this  point  of  view 
there  is  little  of  the  "scientific  spirit";  but  science 
fails  to  reckon  with  the  soul.  Science  advances 
facing  backward,  so  what  prevision  can  it  have  of  a 
miraculous  and  divinely  inspired  future — or  for 
the  matter  of  that,  of  any  future  at  all?  The  old 
methods  and  categories  will  no  longer  answer;  the 
orderly  course  of  evolution  has  been  violently  in- 
terrupted by  the  earthquake  of  the  war;  igneous 
action  has  superseded  aqueous  action.  The  case- 
ments of  the  human  mind  look  out  no  longer  upon 

[57] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


familiar  hills  and  valleys,  but  on  a  stark,  strange, 
devastated  landscape,  the  ploughed  land  of  some 
future  harvest  of  the  years.  It  is  the  end  of  the 
Age,  the  Kali  Yuga — the  completion  of  a  major 
cycle;  but  all  cycles  follow  the  same  sequence: 
after  winter,  Spring;  and  after  the  Iron  Age,  the 
Golden. 

The  specific  features  of  this  organic,  divinely  in- 
spired architecture  of  the  Golden  Age  cannot  of 
course  be  discerned  by  any  one,  any  more  than 
the  manner  in  which  the  Great  Mystery  will  present 
itself  anew  to  consciousness.  The  most  imagina- 
tive artist  can  imagine  only  in  terms  of  the  already- 
existent;  he  can  speak  only  the  language  he  has 
learned.  If  that  language  has  been  derived  from 
mediaevalism,  he  will  let  his  fancy  soar  after  the 
manner  of  Henry  Kirby,  in  his  Imaginative 
Sketches;  if  on  the  contrary  he  has  learned  to  think 
in  terms  of  the  classic  vernacular,  Otto  Rieth's 
Architectur-Skizzen  will  suggest  the  sort  of  thing 
that  he  is  likely  to  produce.  Both  results  will  be 
as  remote  as  possible  from  future  reality,  for  the 
reason  that  they  are  so  near  to  present  reality. 
And  yet  some  germs  of  the  future  must  be  en- 
folded even  in  the  present  moment.  The  course 
of  wisdom  is  to  seek  them  neither  in  the  old  ro- 
[58] 


PLATE    IX.    ARCHITFXTURAL    SKETCH     BV    OTTO    RIETH 


After  the  War 


mance  nor  in  the  new  rationalism,  but  in  the  subtle 
and  ever-changing  spirit  of  the  times. 

The  most  modem  note  yet  sounded  in  business, 
in  diplomacy,  in  social  life,  is  expressed  by  the 
phrase,  "Live  openly!"  From  every  quarter,  in 
regard  to  every  manner  of  human  activity,  has 
come  the  cry,  "Let  in  the  light!"  By  a  physical 
correspondence  not  the  result  of  coincidence,  but 
of  the  operation  of  an  occult  law,  we  have,  in  a 
very  real  sense,  let  in  the  light.  In  buildings  of 
the  latest  type  devoted  to  large  uses,  there  has  been 
a  general  abandonment  of  that  "cellular  system"  of 
many  partitions  which  produced  the  pepper-box  ex- 
terior, in  favour  of  great  rooms  serving  diverse 
functions  lit  by  vast  areas  of  glass.  Although  an 
increase  of  efficiency  has  dictated  and  determined 
these  changes,  this  breaking  down  of  barriers  be- 
tween human  beings  and  their  common  sharing  of 
the  light  of  day  in  fuller  measure,  is  a  symbol  of 
the  growth  of  brotherhood,  and  the  search,  by  the 
soul,  for  spiritual  light. 

Now  if  this  fellowship  and  this  quest  gain  volume 
and  intensity,  its  physical  symbols  are  bound  to 
multiply  and  find  ever  more  perfect  forms  of  mani- 
festation. So  both  as  a  practical  necessity  and  as 
a  symbol  the  most  pregnant  and  profound,  we  are 

[61] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


likely  to  witness  in  architecture  the  development 
of  the  House  of  Light,  particularly  as  human  in- 
genuity has  made  this  increasingly  practicable. 

Glass  is  a  product  still  undergoing  development, 
as  are  also  those  devices  of  metal  for  holding  it 
in  position  and  making  the  joints  weather  tight. 
The  accident  and  fire  hazard  has  been  largely  over- 
come by  protecting  the  structural  parts,  by  the  use 
of  wire  glass,  and  by  other  ingenious  devices.  The 
author  has  been  informed  on  good  authority  that 
shortly  before  the  outbreak  of  the  war  a  glass  had 
been  invented  abroad,  and  made  commercially 
practicable,  which  shut  out  the  heat  rays,  but  ad- 
mitted the  light.  The  use  of  this  glass  would  over- 
come the  last  difficulty — the  equalization  of  tem- 
peratures— and  might  easily  result  in  buildings  of 
an  entirely  novel  type,  the  approach  to  which  is 
seen  in  the  "pier  and  grill"  style  of  exterior.  This 
is  being  adopted  not  only  for  commercial  build- 
ings, but  for  others  of  widely  different  function, 
on  account  of  its  manifest  advantages.  Cass 
Gilbert's  admirable  studio  apartment  at  200  West 
Fifty-Seventh  Street,  New  York,  is  a  building  of 
this  type. 

In  this  seeking  for  sunlight  in  our  cities,  we  will 
come  to  live  on  the  roofs  more  and  more — in  sum- 
[62] 


PLATE    X.      RODIN    STUDIOS,     200  WEST  57TH    STREET,   NEW   YORK 


After  the  War 


mer  in  the  free  air,  in  winter  under  variformed 
shehers  of  glass.  This  tendency  is  already  mani- 
festing itself  in  those  newest  hotels  whose  roofs 
are  gardens,  convertible  into  skating  ponds,  with 
glazed  belvideres  for  eating  in  all  weathers. 
Nothing  but  ignorance  and  inanition  stand  in  the 
way  of  utilization  of  waste  roof  spaces.  People 
have  lived  on  the  roofs  in  the  past,  often  enough, 
and  will  again. 

By  shouldering  ever  upward  for  air  and  light, 
we  have  too  often  made  of  the  "downtown"  dis- 
tricts cliff-bound  canyons — "granite  deeps  open- 
ing into  granite  deeps."  This  has  been  the  result 
of  no  inherent  necessity,  but  of  that  competitive 
greed  whose  nemesis  is  ever  to  miss  the  very  thing 
it  seeks.  By  intelligent  co-operation,  backed  by 
legislation,  the  roads  and  sidewalks  might  be  made 
to  share  the  sunlight  with  the  roofs. 

This  could  be  achieved  in  two  ways :  by  stepping 
back  the  fagades  in  successive  stages — giving  top 
lighting,  terraces,  and  wonderful  incidental  effects 
of  light  and  shade — or  by  adjusting  the  height  of 
the  buildings  to  the  width  of  their  interspaces, 
making  rows  of  tall  buildings  alternate  with  rows 
of  low  ones,  with  occasional  fully  isolated  "sky- 
scrapers" giving  variety  to  the  sky-line. 

[65] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


These  and  similar  problems  of  city  planning 
have  been  worked  out  theoretically  with  much 
minuteness  of  detail,  and  are  known  to  every  stu- 
dent of  the  science  of  cities,  but  very  little  of  it  all 
has  been  realized  in  a  practical  way — certainly  not 
on  this  side  of  the  water,  where  individual  rights 
are  held  so  sacred  that  a  property  owner  may  com- 
mit any  kind  of  an  architectural  nuisance  so  long 
as  he  confines  it  to  his  own  front  yard.  The 
strength  of  IS,  the  weakness  of  should  be,  con- 
flicting interests  and  legislative  cowardice  are  re- 
sponsible for  the  highly  irrational  manner  in  which 
our  cities  have  grown  great. 

The  search  for  spiritual  light  in  the  midst  of 
materialism  finds  unconscious  symbolization  in  a 
way  other  than  this  seeking  for  the  sun.  It  is  in 
the  amazing  development  of  artificial  illumination. 
From  a  purely  utilitarian  standpoint  there  is  al- 
most nothing  that  cannot  now  be  accomplished  with 
light,  short  of  making  the  ether  itself  luminifer- 
ous.  The  aesthetic  development  of  this  field,  how- 
ever, can  be  said  to  have  scarcely  begun.  The 
so  recent  San  Francisco  Exposition  witnessed  the 
first  successful  effort  of  any  importance  to  enhance 
the  effect  of  architecture  by  artificial  illumination, 
and  to  use  colored  light  with  a  view  to  its  purely 
[66] 


After  the  War 


pictorial  value.  Though  certain  buildings  have 
since  been  illuminated  with  excellent  effect,  it  re- 
mains true  that  the  corset,  chewing-gum,  beer  and 
automobile  sky  signs  of  our  Great  White  Ways 
indicate  the  height  to  which  our  imagination  has 
risen  in  utilizing  this  Promethean  gift  in  any  but 
necessary  ways.  Interior  lighting,  except  nega- 
tively, has  not  been  dealt  with  from  the  standpoint 
of  beauty,  but  of  efficiency;  the  engineer  has  pre- 
empted this  field  to  the  exclusion  of  the  artist. 

All  this  is  the  result  of  the  atrophy  of  that  faculty 
to  worship  and  wonder  which  alone  induces  the 
mood  from  which  the  creation  of  beauty  springs. 
Light  we  regard  only  as  a  convenience  "to  see 
things  by"  instead  of  as  the  power  and  glory  that 
it  inherently  is.  Its  intense  and  potent  vibrations 
and  the  rainbow  glory  of  its  colour  beat  at  the  door 
of  consciousness  in  vain.  When  we  awaken  to 
these  things  we  shall  organize  light  into  a  language 
of  spontaneous  emotion,  just  as  from  sound  music 
was  organized. 

It  is  beside  the  purpose  of  this  essay  to  attempt 
to  trace  the  evolution  of  this  new  art  form,  made 
possible  by  modem  invention,  to  indicate  what 
phases  it  is  likely  to  pass  through  on  the  way  to 
what  perfections,  but  that  it  is  bound  to  add  a  new 

[67] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


glory  to  architecture  is  sure.  This  will  come  about 
in  two  ways:  directly,  by  giving  color,  quality, 
subtlety  to  outdoor  and  indoor  lighting,  and  in- 
directly by  educating  the  eye  to  color  values,  as 
tlie  ear  has  been  educated  by  music;  thus  creating 
a  need  for  more  color  everywhere. 

As  light  is  the  visible  symbol  of  an  inner  radi- 
ance, so  is  color  the  sign  manual  of  happiness,  of 
joy.  Our  cities  are  so  dun  and  drab  in  their  out- 
ward aspects,  by  reason  of  the  weight  of  care  that 
burdens  us  down.  We  decry  the  happy  irresponsi- 
bility of  the  savage,  and  the  patient  contentment 
of  the  Oriental  with  his  lot,  but  both  are  able  to 
achieve  marvels  of  color  in  their  environment  be- 
yond the  compass  of  civilized  man.  The  glory  of 
mediaeval  cathedral  windows  is  a  still  living  con- 
futation of  the  belief  that  in  those  far-off  times 
the  human  heart  was  sad.  Architecture  is  the  in- 
dex of  the  inner  life  of  those  who  produced  it, 
and  whenever  it  is  colorful  that  inner  life  contains 
an  inner  joy. 

In  the  coming  Golden  Age  life  will  be  joyous, 
and  if  it  is  joyous,  colour  will  come  into  architec- 
ture again.  Our  psychological  state  even  now, 
alone  prevents  it,  for  we  are  rich  in  materials  and 
methods  to  make  such  polychromy  possible.  In  an 
[68] 


After  the  War 


article  in  a  recent  number  of  The  Architectural  Rec- 
ord, Mr.  Leon  V.  Solon,  writing  from  an  entirely 
different  point  of  view,  divines  this  tendency,  and 
expresses  the  opinion  that  color  is  again  renas- 
cent. This  tendency  is  so  marked,  and  this  opin- 
ion is  so  shared  that  we  may  look  with  confidence 
toward  a  color-evolution  in  architectural  art. 

The  question  of  the  character  of  what  may  be 
called  the  ornamental  mode  of  the  architecture  of 
the  New  Age  is  of  all  questions  the  most  obscure. 
Evolution  along  the  lines  of  the  already  existent 
does  not  help  us  here,  for  we  are  utterly  without 
any  ornamental  mode  from  which  a  new  and  better 
might  conceivably  evolve.  Nothing  so  betrays  the 
spiritual  bankruptcy  of  the  end  of  the  Iron  Age  as 
this. 

The  only  light  on  this  problem  which  we  shall 
find,  dwells  in  the  realm  of  metaphysics  rather  than 
in  the  world  of  material  reality.  Ornament,  more 
than  any  other  element  of  architecture,  is  deeply 
psychological,  it  is  an  extemalization  of  an  inner 
life.  This  is  so  true  that  any  time-worn  fragment 
out  of  the  past  when  art  was  a  language  can  usually 
be  assigned  to  its  place  and  its  period,  so  eloquent 
is  it  of  a  particular  people  and  a  particular  time. 
Could  we  therefore  detect  and  understand  the  ob- 

[69] 


Arcliiteclure  and  Democracy 


scure  movement  of  consciousness  in  the  modern 
world,  we  might  gain  some  clue  to  the  language  it 
would  later  find. 

It  is  clear  that  consciousness  is  moving  away 
from  its  absorption  in  materiality  because  it  is 
losing  faith  in  materialism.  Clairvoyance,  psy- 
chism,  the  recrudescence  of  mysticism,  of  occult- 
ism— these  signs  of  the  times  are  straws  which 
show  which  way  the  wind  now  sets,  and  indicate 
that  the  modern  mind  is  beginning  to  find  itself  at 
home  in  what  is  called  the  fourth  dimension.  The 
phrase  is  used  here  in  a  different  sense  from  that 
in  which  the  mathematician  uses  it,  but  oddly 
enough  four-dimensional  geometry  provides  the 
symbols  by  which  some  of  these  occult  and  mystical 
ideas  may  be  realized  by  the  rational  mind.  One 
of  the  most  engaging  and  inspiring  of  these  ideas 
is  that  the  personal  self  is  a  projection  on  the  plane 
of  materiality  of  a  metaphysical  self,  or  soul,  to 
which  the  personal  self  is  related  as  is  the  shadow 
of  an  object  to  the  object  itself.  Now  this  co- 
incides remarkably  with  the  idea  implicit  in  all 
higher-space  speculation,  that  the  figures  of  solid 
geometry  are  projections  on  a  space  of  three 
dimensions,  of  corresponding  four-dimensional 
forms. 
[70] 


After  the  War 


All  ornament  is  in  its  last  analysis  geometrical 
— sometimes  directly  so,  as  in  the  system  developed 
hy  the  Moors.  Will  the  psychology  of  the  new 
dispensation  find  expression  through  some  adapta- 
tion of  four-dimensional  geometry?  The  idea  is 
far  from  absurd,  by  reason  of  the  decorative  qual- 
ity inherent  in  many  of  the  regular  hypersolids  of 
four-dimensional  space  when  projected  upon  solid 
and  plane  space. 

If  this  suggestion  seems  too  fanciful,  there  is  still 
recourse  to  the  law  of  analogy  in  finding  the  thing 
we  seek.  Every  fresh  religious  impulse  has  al- 
ways developed  a  symbology  through  which  its 
truths  are  expressed  and  handed  down.  These 
symbols,  woven  into  the  very  texture  of  the  life 
of  the  people,  are  embodied  by  them  in  their  orna- 
mental mode.  The  sculpture  of  a  Greek  temple  is 
a  picture-book  of  Greek  religion;  the  ornamenta- 
tion of  a  Gothic  cathedral  is  a  veritable  bible  of 
the  Christian  faith.  Almost  all  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful and  enduring  ornaments  have  first  been  sacred 
symbols;  the  swastika,  the  "Eye  of  Buddha,"  the 
"Shield  of  David,"  the  wheel,  the  lotus,  and  the 
cross. 

Now  that  "twilight  of  the  world"  following  the 
war  perhaps  will  witness  an  Avatara — the  coming 

[71] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


of  a  World-Teacher  who  will  rebuild  on  the  one 
broad  and  ancient  foundation  that  temple  of  Truth 
which  the  folly  and  ignorance  of  man  is  ever  tear- 
ing down.  A  material  counterpart  of  that  temple 
will  in  that  case  afterward  arise.  Thus  will  be 
bom  the  architecture  of  the  future;  and  the  orna- 
ment of  that  architecture  will  tell,  in  a  new  set  of 
symbols,  the  story  of  the  rejuvenation  of  the  world. 
In  this  previsioning  of  architecture  after  the  war, 
the  author  must  not  be  understood  to  mean  that 
these  things  will  be  realized  directly  after.  Archi- 
tecture, from  its  very  nature,  is  the  most  sluggish 
of  all  the  arts  to  respond  to  the  natural  magic  of 
the  quick-moving  mind — it  is  Caliban,  not  Ariel. 
Following  the  war  the  nation  will  be  for  a  time 
depleted  of  man-power,  burdened  with  debt,  pros- 
trate, exhausted.  But  in  that  time  of  reckoning 
will  come  reflection,  penitence. 

"And  I'll  be  wise  hereafter, 
And  seek  for  grace.     What  a  thrice-double  ass 
Was  I,  to  take  this  drunkard  for  a  god, 
And  worship  this  dull  fool." 

With  some  such  epilogue  the  curtain  will  descend 
on  the  great  drama  now  approaching  a  close.  It 
will  be  for  the  younger  generations,  the  reincar- 
[72] 


After  the  War 


nate  souls  of  those  who  fell  in  battle,  to  inaugurate 
the  work  of  giving  expression,  in  deathless  forms 
of  art,  to  the  vision  of  that  "fairer  world"  glimpsed 
now  only  as  by  lightning,  in  a  dream. 


[73] 


ESSAYS 


ORNAMENT  FROM  MATHEMATICS 


THE  WORLD  ORDER 

NO  fact  is  better  established  than  that  we  live 
in  an  orderly  universe.  The  truth  of  this 
the  world-war  may  for  the  moment,  and  to 
the  near  and  narrow  view  appear  to  contradict, 
but  the  sweep  of  human  history,  and  the  stars  in 
their  courses,  show  an  orderliness  which  cannot 
be  gainsaid. 

Now  of  that  order,  number — that  is,  mathemat- 
ics— is  the  more  than  symbol,  it  is  the  very  thing 
itself.  Whence  this  weltering  tide  of  life  arose, 
and  whither  it  flows,  we  know  not;  but  that  it  is 
governed  by  mathematical  law  all  of  our  knowledge 
in  every  field  confirms.  Were  it  not  so,  knowledge 
itself  would  be  impossible.  It  is  because  man  is 
a  counting  animal  that  he  is  master  over  all  the 
beasts  of  the  earth. 

[77] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


Number  is  the  tune  to  which  all  things  move,  and 
as  it  were  make  music;  it  is  in  the  pulses  of  the 
blood  no  less  than  in  the  starred  curtain  of  the  sky. 
It  is  a  necessary  concomitant  alike  of  the  sharp 
bargain,  the  chemical  experiment,  and  the  fine 
frenzy  of  the  poet.  Music  is  number  made  audi- 
ble; architecture  is  number  made  visible;  nature 
geometrizes  not  alone  in  her  crystals,  but  in  her 
most  intricate  arabesques. 

If  number  be  indeed  the  universal  solvent  of  all 
forms,  sounds,  motions,  may  we  not  make  of  it  the 
basis  of  a  new  aesthetic — a  loom  on  which  to  weave 
patterns  the  like  of  which  the  world  has  never 
seen?  To  attempt  such  a  thing — to  base  art  on 
mathematics — argues  (some  one  is  sure  to  say)  an 
entire  misconception  of  the  nature  and  function  of 
art.  "Art  is  a  fountain  of  spontaneous  emotion" 
— what,  therefore,  can  it  have  in  common  with  the 
proverbially  driest,  least  spontaneous  preoccupa- 
tion of  the  human  mind?  But  the  above  definition 
concludes  with  the  assertion  that  this  emotion 
reaches  the  soul  "through  various  channels."  The 
transit  can  be  effected  only  through  some  sensuous 
element,  some  language  (in  the  largest  sense), 
and  into  this  the  element  of  number  and  form  must 
[78] 


PLATE    XL     IMAGINARY     COMPOSITION:     THE     PORTAL 


V 


The  World  Order 


inevitably  enter — mathematics  is  "there"  and  can- 
not be  thought  or  argued  away. 

But  to  make  mathematics,  and  not  the  emotion 
which  it  expresses,  the  important  thing,  is  not  this 
to  fall  into  the  time-worn  heresy  of  art  for  art's 
sake,  that  is,  art  for  form's  sake — art  for  the  sake 
of  mathematics?  To  this  objection  there  is  an  an- 
swer, and  as  this  answer  contains  the  crux  of  the 
whole  matter,  embraces  the  proposition  by  which 
this  thesis  must  stand  or  fall,  it  must  be  full  and 
clear. 

What  is  it,  in  the  last  analysis,  that  all  art  which 
is  not  purely  personal  and  episodical  strives  to 
express?  Is  it  not  the  world-order? — the  very 
thing  that  religion,  philosophy,  science,  strive  ac- 
cording to  their  different  natures  and  methods  to 
express?  The  perception  of  the  world-order  by  the 
artist  arouses  an  emotion  to  which  he  can  give  vent 
only  in  terms  of  number;  but  number  is  itself  the 
most  abstract  expression  of  the  world  order.  The 
form  and  content  of  art  are  therefore  not  different, 
but  the  same.  A  deep  sense  of  this  probably  in- 
spired Pater's  famous  saying  that  all  art  aspires 
toward  the  condition  of  music;  for  music,  from  its 
very  nature,  is  the  world-order  uttered  in  terms  of 

[81] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


number,  in  a  sense  and  to  a  degree  not  attained  by 
any  other  art. 

This  is  not  mere  verbal  juggling.  We  have  suf- 
fered so  long  from  an  art-phase  which  exalts  the 
personal,  as  opposed  to  the  cosmic,  that  we  have 
lost  sight  of  the  fact  that  tlie  great  arts  of  antiquity, 
preceding  the  Renaissance,  insisted  on  the  cosmic, 
or  impersonal  aspect,  and  on  this  alone,  just  as 
does  Oriental  art,  even  today.  The  secret  essence, 
the  archetypal  idea  of  the  subject  is  the  preoccu- 
pation of  the  Oriental  artist,  as  it  was  of  the  Egyp- 
tian, and  of  the  Greek.  We  of  the  West  today  seek 
as  eagerly  to  fix  the  accidental  and  ephemeral 
aspect — the  shadow  of  a  particular  cloud  upon  a 
particular  landscape;  the  smile  on  the  face  of  a  spe- 
cific person,  in  a  recognizable  room,  at  a  particu- 
lar moment  of  time.  Of  symbolic  art,  of  universal 
emotion  expressing  itself  in  terms  which  are  uni- 
versal, we  have  very  little  to  show. 

The  reason  for  this  is  first,  our  love  for,  and 
understanding  of,  the  concrete  and  personal:  it  is 
the  world-aspect  and  not  the  world-order  which  in- 
terests us;  and  second,  the  inadequacies  of  current 
forms  of  art  expression  to  render  our  sense  of 
the  eternal  secret  heart  of  things  as  it  presents  it- 
self to  our  young  eyes.  Confronted  with  this  dif- 
[82] 


The  World  Order 


ficulty,  we  have  shirked  it,  and  our  ambition  has 
shrunk  to  the  portrayal  of  those  aspects  which  shuf- 
fle our  poverty  out  of  sight.  It  is  not  a  poverty 
of  technique — we  are  dexterous  enough;  nor  is  it 
a  poverty  of  invention — we  are  clever  enough;  it 
is  the  poverty  of  the  spiritual  bankrupt  trying  to 
divert  attention  by  a  prodigal  display  of  the  small- 
est of  small  change. 

Reference  is  made  here  only  to  the  arts  of  space ; 
the  arts  of  time — music,  poetry,  and  the  (written) 
drama — employing  vehicles  more  flexible,  have 
been  more  fortunate,  though  they  too  suffer  in 
some  degree  from  worshipping,  instead  of  the  god 
of  order,  the  god  of  chance. 

The  corrective  of  this  is  a  return  to  first  princi- 
ples :  principles  so  fundamental  that  they  suff'er  no 
change,  however  new  and  various  their  illustrations. 
These  principles  are  embodied  in  number,  and  one 
might  almost  say  nowhere  else  in  such  perfection. 
Mathematics  is  not  the  dry  and  deadly  thing  that 
our  teaching  of  it  and  the  uses  we  put  it  to  have 
made  it  seem.  Mathematics  is  the  handwriting  on 
the  human  consciousness  of  the  very  Spirit  of  Life 
itself.  Others  before  Pythagoras  discovered  this, 
and  it  is  the  discovery  which  awaits  us  too. 

To  indicate  the  way  in  which  mathematics  might 

[83] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


be  made  to  yield  the  elements  of  a  new  aesthetic 
is  beyond  the  province  of  this  essay,  being  beyond 
the  compass  of  its  author,  but  he  makes  bold  to  take 
a  single  phase:  ornament,  and  to  deal  with  it  from 
this  point  of  view. 

The  ornament  now  in  common  use  has  been 
gathered  from  the  dust-bin  of  the  ages.  What  or- 
namental motif  of  any  universality,  worth,  or  im- 
portance is  less  than  a  hundred  years  old?  We 
continue  to  use  the  honeysuckle,  the  acanthus,  the 
fret,  the  egg  and  dart,  not  because  they  are  appro- 
priate to  any  use  we  put  them  to,  but  because  they 
are  beautiful  per  se.  Why  are  they  beautiful?  It 
is  not  because  they  are  highly  conventionalized 
representations  of  natural  forms  which  are  them- 
selves beautiful,  but  because  they  express  cosmic 
truths.  The  honeysuckle  and  the  acanthus  leaf, 
for  example,  express  the  idea  of  successive  im- 
pulses, mounting,  attaining  a  maximum,  and  de- 
scending— expanding  from  some  focus  of  force  in 
the  manner  universal  throughout  nature.  Science 
recognizes  in  the  spiral  an  archetypal  form,  whether 
found  in  a  whirlpool  or  in  a  nebula.  A  fret  is  a 
series  of  highly  conventionalized  spirals:  trans- 
late it  from  angular  to  curved  and  we  have  the 
wave-band;  isolate  it  and  we  have  the  volute.  Egg 
[84] 


The  World  Order 


and  dart  are  phallic  emblems,  female  and  male ;  or, 
if  you  prefer,  as  ellipse  and  straight  line,  they  are 
symbols  of  finite  existence  con- 
trasted with  infinity.  [Fig- 
ure 1.] 

Suppose  that  we  determine 
to  divest  ourselves  of  these  and 

other     precious     inheritances, 

Ef^MgMM    not  because  they  have  lost  their 

beauty  and  meaning,  but  rather 

y^/^/^/^/^y  on  account  of  their  manifold 
associations  with  a  past  which 
the  war  makes  suddenly  more 
remote  than  slow  centuries 
have  done ;  suppose  that  we  de- 
I  Oj  I  /^  I  /O  1  (Ol  termine  to  supplant  these  sym- 
I       I  v^  I  v^  I  v^      j^^jg     T^\i\^     others,     no     less 

charged  with  beauty  and  mean- 
ing, but  more  directly  drawn  from  the  inexhaustible 
well  of  mathematical  truth — how  shall  we  set  to 
work? 

We  need  not  set  to  work,  because  we  have  done 
that  already,  we  are  always  doing  it,  unknowingly, 
and  without  knowing  the  reason  why.  All  oma- 
mentalists  are  subjective  mathematicians — an 
amazing  statement,   perhaps,   but  one   susceptible 

[85] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


of   confirmation   in   countless    amusing   ways,    of 
which  two  will  be  shown. 

NUMKRICAIh  RYTHM^  and  IHOl^ 
KE^I^ATlON  TO  TlAcMIl^lAI^PArTTEm 


IN  thb;  c^al^ndar,  the;  ^j^qm  a^  th^; 

PAII^  CP  NUMtiE^I^  OPPCyiTEl  10  AND 
:E:QyIDI^5^TAKT  T^ROM  ANY  MIDDL~e: 
T^IQUiaB;  J^S"  TV^  DOUlbL,"E: 

Figure  2 

Consider  first  your  calendar — your  calendar 
whose  commonplace  face,  having  yielded  you  in- 
formation as  to  pay  day,  due  day,  and  holiday, 
you  obliterate  at  the  end  of  each  month  without  a 
qualm,  oblivious  to  the  fact  that  were  your  interests 
less  sordid  and  personal  it  would  speak  to  you  of 
that  order  which  pervades  the  universe;  would 
make  you  realize  something  of  the  music  of  the 
[86] 


The  World  Order 


spheres.  For  on  that  familiar  checkerboard  of  the 
days  are  numerical  arrangements  which  are  mys- 
terious, "magical";  each  separate  number  is  as  a 
spider  at  the  center  of  an  amazing  mathematical 
web.  That  is  to  say,  every  number  is  discovered  to 
be  half  of  the  sum  of  the  pairs  of  numbers  which 
surround  it,  vertically,  horizontally,  and  diagon- 
ally: all  of  the  pairs  add  to  the  same  sum,  and  the 
central  number  divides  this  sum  by  two.  A 
graphic  indication  of  this  fact  on  the  calendar  face 
by  means  of  a  system  of  intersecting  lines  yields 
that  form  of  classic  grille  dear  to  the  heart  of  every 
tyro  draughtsman.  [Figure  2.]  Here  is  an  evi- 
dent relation  between  mathematical  fact  and  orna- 
mental mode,  whether  the  result  of  accident,  or  by 
reason  of  some  subconscious  connection  between 
the  creative  and  the  reasoning  part  of  the  mind. 

To  show,  by  means  of  an  example  other  than  this 
acrostic  of  the  days,  how  the  pattern-making  in- 
stinct follows  unconsciously  in  the  groove  traced 
out  for  it  by  mathematics,  the  attention  of  the 
reader  is  directed  to  the  design  of  the  old  Colonial 
bed-spread  shown  in  Figure  3.  Adjacent  to  this,  in 
the  upper  right  hand  comer,  is  a  magic  square  of 
four.  That  is,  all  of  the  columns  of  figures  of 
which  it  is  composed :  vertical,  horizontal  and  diag- 

[87] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


onal  add  to  the  same  sum:  34.  An  analysis  of  this 
square  reveals  the  fact  that  it  is  made  up  of  the 
figures  of  two  different  orders  of  counting:  the  or- 
dinary order,  beginning  at  the  left  hand  upper  cor- 
ner and  reading  across  and  down  in  the  usual  way, 
and  the  reverse-ordinary,  beginning  at  the  lower 
right  hand  comer  and  reading  across  and  up.  The 
figures  in  the  four  central  cells  and  in  the  four  out- 
side corner  cells  are  discovered  to  belong  in  the 
first  category,  and  the  remaining  figures  in  the  sec- 
ond. Now  if  the  ordinary  order  cells  be  repre- 
sented by  white,  and  the  reverse  ordinary  by  black, 
just  such  a  pattern  has  been  created  as  forms  the 
decorative  motif  of  the  quilt. 

It  may  be  claimed  that  these  two  examples  of  a 
relation  between  ornament  and  mathematics  are 
accidental  and  therefore  prove  nothing,  but  they  at 
least  furnish  a  clue  which  tlie  artist  would  be  fool- 
ish not  to  follow  up.  Let  him  attack  his  problem 
this  time  directly,  and  see  if  number  may  not  be 
made  to  yield  the  thing  he  seeks:  namely,  space- 
rhythms  which  are  beautiful  and  new. 

We  know  that  there  is  a  beauty  inherent  in  order, 
that  necessity  of  one  sort  or  another  is  the  parent 
of  beauty.  Beauty  in  architecture  is  largely  the 
result  of  structural  necessity;  beauty  in  ornament 
[88] 


The  World  Order 


7 

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OLP  c:a,ONlAl^  blp-^S^PI^/^  IL^U^i^lMTlN^ 
A  PRJNaPiK  OF  DE^^S^iqN  hk$^  ON  MAjIC 
-1X4  fS^QUARE:  C3^  OAND  HD  OKDE|I^ 

Figure  3 

may  spring  from  a  necessity  which  is  numerical. 
It  is  clear  that  the  arrangement  of  numbers  in  a 
magic  square  is  necessitous — they  must  be  placed 

[89] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


in  a  certain  way  in  order  that  the  summation  of 
every  column  shall  be  the  same.  The  problem  then 
becomes  to  make  that  necessity  reveal  itself  to  the 
eye.  Now  most  magic  squares  contain  a  magic 
path,  discovered  by  following  the  numbers  from 
cell  to  cell  in  their  natural  order.  Because  this 
is  a  necessitous  line  it  should  not  surprise  us  that 
it  is  frequently  beautiful  as  well. 

The  left  hand  drawing  in  Figure  4  represents 
the  smallest  aggregation  of  numbers  that  is  ca- 
pable of  magic  square  arrangement.  Each  vertical, 
horizontal,  and  comer  diagonal  column  adds  up  to 
15,  and  the  sum  of  any  two  opposite  numbers  is  10, 
which  is  twice  the  center  number.  The  magic 
path  is  the  endless  line  developed  by  following, 
free  hand,  the  numbers  in  their  natural  order,  from 
1  to  9  and  back  to  1  again.  The  drawing  at  the 
right  of  Figure  4  is  this  same  line  translated  into 
ornament  by  making  an  interlace  of  it,  and  filling 
in  the  larger  interstices  with  simple  floral  forms. 
This  has  been  executed  in  white  plaster  and  made 
to  perform  the  function  of  a  ventilating  grille. 

Now  the  number  of  magic  squares  is  practically 
limitless,  and  while  all  of  them  do  not  yield  magic 
lines  of  the  beauty  of  this  one,  some  contain  even 
richer  decorative  possibilities.  But  there  are  also 
[90] 


The  World  Order 


other  ways  of  deriv- 
ing ornament  from 
magic  squares,  al- 
ready hinted  at  in 
the  discussion  of  the 
MAaiC^PAm'cr3X3,5^Ql,M:    colonial  quih 

WITH  d:e:wvejdpatte;rn  '"       ^ 

p.        ^  Magic  squares  of 

an  even  number  of 

cells  are  found  sometimes  to  consist  of  numbers 

arranged  not  only 


in  combinations 
of  the  ordinary 
and  the  reverse 
ordinary  orders 
of  counting,  but 
involving  two  oth- 
ers as  well:  the 
reverse  of  the  or- 
dinary (beginning 
at  the  upper  right 
hand,  across,  and 
down)  and  the 
reversed  inverse, 
(beginning  at  the 
lower  left  hand, 
across,    and   up). 


©Z3©0^  7® 

ORDIK^Y  CKDEIl. 

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EBVERi^-lNVEJ^ 

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40if3Sl]3t^3f35 
6f  63  616'  eo^StS; 


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THfidOMPlfrgD  J'QUAHE'  AND  IE:r:IVE:d 

patts^rn,  ao-  douuMN,;'  add  to  zeo. 

ORNAMENT  FROM  M/^IC  j'QJJARHCf  8 

Figure  5 

[91] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


If,  in  such  a  magic  square,  a  simple  graphic  sym- 
bol be  substituted  for  the  numbers  belonging  to  each 
order,  pattern  spontaneously  springs  to  life.  Fig- 
ures 5  and  6  exemplify  the  method,  and  Figures 
7  and  8  the  translation  of  some  of  these  squares 
into  richer  patterns  by  elaborating  the  symbols 
while  respecting  their  arrangement.  By  only  a 
slight    stretch    of    the    imagination    the    beautiful 


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MAdlCiit^gARlJ  0?'4  4X4^m7JE: 

lANDO  INTEjRiTHANCqEAbLfl 

OBBO 

BOOB^    ,111-  I,,  riaiui^uzj^ 

boobO  rTMTteiP        tetytTtylR- 

OBBO 


16 

2 

3 

IS 

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// 

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g 

i 

7 

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IZ. 

4- 

14 

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1 

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if 

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[92] 


Figure  6 


The  World  Order 


pierced  stone  screen  from  Ravenna  shown  in  Fig- 
ure 9  might  be  conceived  of  as  having  been  devel- 
oped according  to  this  method,  although  of  course 
it  was  not  so  in  fact.  Some  of  the  arrangements 
shown  in  Figure  6  are  closely  paralleled  in  the 
acoustic  figures  made  by  means  of  musical  tones 
with  sand,  on  a  sheet  of  metal  or  glass. 


0oMPAiiE;\K?'iTHX?i(46  c^ompake;   ■ 


COMPARE 

rm  TRA[q^^LAnoN  ov  mac^  ^c^mj^  wx:  pattern 

Figure  7 


The  celebrated  Franklin  square  of  16  cells  can 
be  made  to  yield  a  beautiful  pattern  by  designat- 
ing some  of  the  lines  which  give  the  summation  of 
2056  by  different  symbols,  as  shown  in  Figure  10. 
A  free  translation  of  this  design  into  pattern  brick- 
work is  indicated  in  Figure  11. 

If  these   processes   seem  unduly   involved   and 

[93] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


elaborate  for  the  achievement  of  a  simple  result 
— like  burning  the  house  down  in  order  to  get  roast 
pig — there  are  other  more  simple  ways  of  deriv- 
ing ornament  from  mathematics,  for  the  truths  of 
number  find  direct  and  perfect  expression  in  the 


/ 

/f 

/S 

^ 

8 

// 

fO 

S 

fZ 

7 

6 

3 

rb 

2 

3 

/6 

■  =  ORDlNARYO 

o-kp/e:i^o(:ro) 


n 

X 

X 

■ 

+ 

O 

O 

+ 

+ 

O 

O 

H- 

■ 

X 

X 

■ 

AN  ORHAMElFrr/i^  PAKEll,  D^' 
VEjpr^t)  T^ROM  A  MAqiC^  4-X4 


Figure  8 


figures  of  geometry.  The  squaring  of  a  number 
— the  raising  of  it  to  its  second  power — finds 
graphic  expression  in  the  plane  figure  of  the  square; 
and  the  cubing  of  a  number — the  raising  of  it  to 
its  third  power — in  the  solid  figure  of  the  cube. 
Now  squares  and  cubes  have  been  recognized  from 
[94] 


I'ttD'-.^-iA.*- 


jjri322in2ziini£_!i!     prjnmTT" 


PLATE   XII.    IMAGINARY    COMPOSITION  :     THE    BALCONY 


The  World  Order 


time  immemorial  as  useful  ornamental  motifs. 
Other  elementary  geometrical  figures,  making  con- 
crete to  the  eye  the  truths  of  abstract  number,  may 
be  dealt  with  by  the  designer  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  produce  ornament  the 
most  varied  and  profuse. 
Moorish  ceilings,  Gothic 
window  tracery,  Grolier 
bindings,  all  indicate  the 
richness  of  the  field. 

Suppose,  for  example, 
that  we  attempt  to  deal  deco- 
ratively  with  such  simple 
figures  as  the  three  lowest 
Platonic  solids — the  tetra- 
hedron, the  hexahedron,  and 
the  octahedron.  [Figure 
12.]  Their  projection  on  a  plane  yields  a  rhyth- 
mical division  of  space,  because  of  their  inherent 
symmetry.  These  projections  would  correspond  to 
the  network  of  lines  seen  in  looking  through  a  glass 
paperweight  of  the  given  shape,  the  lines  being 
formed  by  the  joining  of  the  several  faces.  Figure 
13  represents  ornamental  bands  developed  in  this 
manner.  The  dodecahedron  and  icosahedron, 
having  more  faces,  yield  more  intricate  patterns, 

[97] 


FJ$OM  RAVENNA 

^0(^riVE  OF  MAaC 
SQJNSc.  ARKANqEMENTJ* 

Figure  9 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


and  there  is  no  limit  to  the  variety  of  interesting  de- 
signs obtainahle  by  these  direct  and  simple 
means. 


ze^s^a 


WZf  *»£ 


l^M)  1£M^/W« 


10_{l_ 


'IE. 


»  ;5  ^  lU  <IS  5»  2  ^ 


//»  l(?U^  lis  1%/0i90 


i5!- 


^^[■aj^^^u 


ff^o^  ^/jj/uyti  ■ 


91  m  la  m  la  'U 


Mfj^^^rnvsM 


'S.'IL 


rr^/y^ij^ftirp 


njf? 


f?4Z 


•  =^zanf  m=zofS   ^=zof6']3=zosi 

the;  i6xi6^EANKUH'.^Qyi^KE  AND  rx$  PROItKni;^ 

Figure  10 

If  the  author  has  been  successful  thus  far  in  his 
exposition,  it  should  be  sufficiently  plain  that  from 
the  inexhaustible  well  of  mathematics  fresh  beauty 
may  be  drawn.  But  what  of  its  significance? 
Ornament  must  mean  something;  it  must  have  some 
relation  to  the  dominant  ideation  of  the  day;  it  must 
express  the  psychological  mood. 

What  is  the  psychological  mood?  Ours  is  an 
age  of  transition;  we  live  in  a  changing  world. 
On  the  one  hand  we  witness  the  breaking  up  of 
many  an  old  thought  crystal,  on  the  other  we  feel 
the  pressure  of  those  forces  which  shall  create  the 
[98] 


The  World  Order 


new.  What  is  nature's  first  visible  creative  act? 
The  formation  of  a  geometrical  crystal.  The  ar- 
tist should  take  this  hint,  and  organize  geometry 
into  a  new  ornamental  mode;  by  so  doing  he  will 
prove  himself  to  be  in  relation  to  the  anima  mundi. 
It  is  only  by  the  establishment  of  such  a  relation 
that  new  beauty  comes  to  birth  in  the  world. 

m 


oompaee;  ^wm  t^'t'^c 


GD^CZD^C . ^^ 

(zniGagg^cDczjczisamBsaBats] 

EQQ0QQD0QQQQQQQQQDQEI3 

CtoMEAEEj  WTrti  yi6  lO 

Figure  11 

Ornament  in  its  primitive  manifestations  is  geo- 
metrical rather  than  naturalistic.  This  is  in  a 
manner  strange,  that  the  abstract  and  metaphysical 
thing  should  precede  the  concrete  and  sensuous. 
It  would  be  natural  to  suppose  that  man  would  first 
imitate  the  things  which  surround  him,  but  the  most 

[99] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


^TETRAHECRCK 


cursory  acquaintance  with 
primitive  art  shows  that  he  is 
much  more  apt  to  crudely  ge- 
ometrize.  Now  it  is  not  neces- 
sary to  assume  that  we  are  to 
revert  to  the  conditions  of  sav- 
agery in  order  to  believe  that 
in  this  matter  of  a  sound  aes- 
thetic we  must  begin  where  art  has  always  begun — 
with  number  and  geometry.     Nevertheless  there  is 


D(XiEKAHar«CN/ 


icscvahe^deqh 
Figure  12 


FROM  PL,AIDNIC  SOUDS 


Figure  13 


a  subtly  ironic  view  which  one  is  justified  in  hold- 
ing in  regard  to  quite  obvious  aspects  of  American 
[100] 


The  World  Order 


life,  in  the  light  of  which  that  life  appears  to  have 
rather  more  in  common  with  savagery  than  with 
culture. 

The  submersion  of  scholarship  by  athletics  in 
our  colleges  is  a  case  in  point,  the  contest  of  muscles 
exciting  much  more  interest  and  enthusiasm  than 
any  contest  of  wits.  We  persist  in  the  savage 
habit  of  devouring  the  corpses  of  slain  animals  long 
after  the  necessity  for  it  is  past,  and  some  even 
murder  innocent  wild  creatures,  giving  to  their 
ferocity  the  name  of  sport.  Our  women  bedeck 
themselves  with  furs  and  feathers,  the  fruit  of 
mercenary  and  systematic  slaughter;  we  perform 
orgiastic  dances  to  the  music  of  horns  and  drums 
and  cymbals — in  short,  we  have  the  savage  psychol- 
ogy without  its  vital  religious  instinct  and  its  sure 
decorative  sense  for  color  and  form. 

But  this  is  of  course  true  only  of  the  surface  and 
sunlit  shadows  of  the  great  democratic  tide.  Its 
depths  conceal  every  kind  of  subtlety  and  sophisti- 
cation, high  endeavour,  and  a  response  to  beauty 
and  wisdom  of  a  sort  far  removed  from  the  amoeba 
stage  of  development  above  sketched.  Of  this  lat- 
ter stage  the  simple  figures  of  Euclidian  plane  and 
solid  geometry — figures  which  any  child  can  un- 
derstand— are   the   appropriate   symbols,   but   for 

[101] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


that  other  more  developed  state  of  consciousness — 
less  apparent  but  more  important — these  will  not 
do.  Something  more  sophisticated  and  recondite 
must  be  sought  for  if  we  are  to  have  an  ornamental 
mode  capable  of  expressing  not  only  the  simplicity 
but  the  complexity  of  present-day  psychology. 
This  need  not  be  sought  for  outside  the  field  of 
geometry,  but  within  it,  and  by  an  extension  of  the 
methods  already  described.  There  is  an  altogether 
modem  development  of  the  science  of  mathematics: 
the  geometry  of  four  dimensions.  This  repre- 
sents the  emancipation  of  the  mind  from  the  tyr- 
anny of  mere  appearances;  the  turning  of  con- 
sciousness in  a  new  direction.  It  has  therefore  a 
high  symbolical  significance  as  typifying  that 
movement  away  from  materialism  which  is  so 
marked  a  phenomenon  of  the  times. 

Of  course  to  those  whose  notion  of  the  fourth 
dimension  is  akin  to  that  of  a  friend  of  the  author 
who  described  it  as  "a  wagon-load  of  bung-holes," 
the  idea  of  getting  from  it  any  practical  advantage 
cannot  seem  anything  but  absurd.  There  is  some- 
thing about  this  form  of  words  "the  fourth  dimen- 
sion" which  seems  to  produce  a  sort  of  mental- 
phobia  in  certain  minds,  rendering  them  incapable 
of  perception  or  reason.  Such  people,  because 
[102] 


The  World  Order 


they  cannot  stick  their  cane  into  it  contend  that  the 
fourth  dimension  has  no  mathematical  or  philoso- 
phical validity.  As  ignorance  on  this  subject  is 
very  general,  the  following  essay  will  be  devoted 
to  a  consideration  of  the  fourth  dimension  and  its 
relation  to  a  new  ornamental  mode. 


[103] 


II 

THE  FOURTH  DIMENSION 

THE  subject  of  the  fourth  dimension  is  not  an 
easy  one  to  understand.  Fortunately  the  ar- 
tist in  design  does  not  need  to  penetrate  far 
into  these  fascinating  halls  of  thought  in  order  to 
reap  the  advantage  which  he  seeks.  Nevertheless 
an  intention  of  mind  upon  this  "fairy-tale  of  mathe- 
matics" cannot  fail  to  enlarge  his  intellectual  and 
spiritual  horizons,  and  develop  his  imagination — 
that  finest  instrument  in  all  his  chest  of  tools. 

By  way  of  introduction  to  the  subject  Prof. 
James  Bymie  Shaw,  in  an  article  in  the  Scientific 
Monthly,  has  this  to  say: 

Up  to  the  period  of  the  Reformation  algebraic  equa- 
tions of  more  than  the  third  degree  were  frowned  upon 
as  having  no  real  meaning,  since  there  is  no  fourth 
power  or  dimension.  But  about  one  hundred  years  ago 
this  chimera  became  an  actual  existence,  and  today  it 
is  furnishing  a  new  world  to  physics,  in  which  mechanics 
may  become  geometry,  time  be  co-ordinated  with  space, 
[104] 


The  Fourth  Dimension 


and  every  geometric  theorem  in  the  world  is  a  physical 
theorem  in  the  experimental  world  in  study  in  the  labora- 
tory. Startling  indeed  it  is  to  the  scientist  to  be  told 
that  an  artificial  dream-world  of  the  mathematician  is 
more  real  than  that  he  sees  with  his  galvanometers,  ultra- 
microscopes,  and  spectroscopes.  It  matters  little  that 
he  replies,  "Your  four-dimensional  world  is  only  an 
analytic  explanation  of  my  phenomena,"  for  the  fact  re- 
mains a  fact,  that  in  the  mathematician's  four-dimen- 
sional space  there  is  a  space  not  derived  in  any  sense  of 
the  term  as  a  residue  of  experience,  however  powerful  a 
distillation  of  sensations  or  perceptions  be  resorted  to, 
for  it  is  not  contained  at  all  in  the  fluid  that  experi- 
ence furnishes.  It  is  a  product  of  the  creative  power  of 
the  mathematical  mind,  and  its  objects  are  real  in  exactly 
the  same  way  that  the  cube,  the  square,  the  circle,  the 
sphere  or  the  straight  line.  We  are  enabled  to  see  with 
the  penetrating  vision  of  the  mathematical  insight  that  no 
less  real  and  no  more  real  are  these  fantastic  forms  of 
the  world  of  relativity  than  those  supposed  to  be  uncreat- 
able  or  indestructible  in  the  play  of  the  forces  of  na- 
ture. 

These  "fantastic  forms"  alone  need  concern  the 
artist.  If  by  some  potent  magic  he  can  precipitate 
them  into  the  world  of  sensuous  images  so  that  they 
make  music  to  the  eye,  he  need  not  even  enter  into 
the  question  of  their  reality,  but  in  order  to  achieve 
this  transmutation  he  should  know  something,  at 

[105] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


least,  of  the  strange  laws  of  their  being,  should  lend 
ear  to  a  fairy-tale  in  which  each  theorem  is  a  para- 
dox, and  each  paradox  a  mathematical  fact. 

He  must  conceive  of  a  space  of  four  mutually  in- 
dependent directions;  a  space,  that  is,  having  a 
direction  at  right  angles  to  every  direction  that  we 
know.  We  cannot  point  to  this,  we  cannot  picture 
it,  but  we  can  reason  about  it  with  a  precision  that  is 
all  but  absolute.  In  such  a  space  it  would  of 
course  be  possible  to  establish  four  axial  lines,  all 
intersecting  at  a  point,  and  all  mutually  at  right 
angles  with  one  another.  Every  hyper-solid  of 
four-dimensional  space  has  these  four  axes. 

The  regular  hyper-solids  (analogous  to  the 
Platonic  solids  of  three-dimensional  space)  are 
the  "fantastic  forms"  which  will  prove  useful  to 
the  artist.  He  should  learn  to  lure  them  forth 
along  their  axis  lines.  That  is,  let  him  build  up 
his  figures,  space  by  space,  developing  them  from 
lower  spaces  to  higher.  But  since  he  cannot  enter 
the  fourth  dimension,  and  build  them  there,  nor 
even  the  third — if  he  confines  himself  to  a  sheet 
of  paper — he  must  seek  out  some  form  of  repre- 
sentation of  the  higher  in  the  lower.  This  is  a 
process  with  which  he  is  already  acquainted,  for  he 
employs  it  every  time  he  makes  a  perspective 
[106] 


The  Fourth  Dimension 


drawing,  which  is  the  representation  of  a  solid  on 
a  plane.  All  that  is  required  is  an  extension  of  the 
method:  a  hyper-solid  can  be  represented  in  a  fig- 
ure of  three  dimensions,  and  this  in  turn  can  be 
projected  on  a  plane.  The  achieved  result  will 
constitute  a  perspective  of  a  perspective — the  rep- 
resentation of  a  representation. 

This  may  sound  obscure  to  the  uninitiated,  and  it 
is  true  that  the  plane  projection  of  some  of  the  reg- 
ular hyper-solids  are  staggeringly  intricate  affairs, 
but  the  author  is  so  sure  that  this  matter  lies  so 
well  within  the  compass  of  the  average  non-mathe- 
matical mind  that  he  is  willing  to  put  his  confidence 
to  a  practical  test. 

It  is  proposed  to  develop  a  representation  of  the 
tesseract  or  hyper-cube  on  the  paper  of  this  page, 
that  is,  on  a  space  of  two  dimensions.  Let  us  start 
as  far  back  as  we  can:  with  a  point.  This  point, 
a,  [Figure  14]  is  conceived  to  move  in  a  direc- 
tion w,  developing  the  line  a  b.  This  line  next 
moves  in  a  direction  at  right  angles  to  w,  namely,  x, 
a  distance  equal  to  its  length,  forming  the  square 
abed.  Now  for  the  square  to  develop  into  a 
cube  by  a  movement  into  the  third  dimension  it 
would  have  to  move  in  a  direction  at  right  angles  to 
both  w  and  x,  that  is,  out  of  the  plane  of  the  paper 

[107] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


— away  from  it  altogether,  eitlier  up  or  down. 
This  is  not  possible,  of  course,  but  the  third  direc- 
tion can  be  represented  on  the  plane  of  the  paper. 

TWO  PROJECTION^  OFTHI:  HYPI^- 

CU5K  or.te:^^ract  and  thehi^ 

THAN^LATION  INTO  ORKAME:nT. 


\ 

/ 

\ 

/ 

\          ^  ■ 

y 

} 

s/ 

s 

\                     ^ 

/ 

\ 

\ 

/ 

\ 

b 


Figure  14 


D 


Let  us  represent  it  as  diagonally  downward  toward 
the  right,  namely,  y.  In  the  y  direction,  then,  and 
at  a  distance  equal  to  the  length  of  one  of  the  sides 
of  the  square,  another  square  is  drawn,  a'b'c'd'', 
[108] 


The  Fourth  Dimension 


representing  the  original  square  at  the  end  of  its 
movement  into  the  third  dimension;  and  because 
in  that  movement  the  bounding  points  of  the  square 
have  traced  out  Hues  (edges),  it  is  necessary  to  con- 
nect the  corresponding  comers  of  the  two  squares 
by  means  of  hnes.  This  completes  the  figure  and 
achieves  the  representation  of  a  cube  on  a  plane  by 
a  perfectly  simple  and  familiar  process.  Its  six 
faces  are  easily  identified  by  the  eye,  though  only 
two  of  them  appear  as  squares  owing  to  the  exigen- 
cies of  representation. 

Now  for  a  leap  into  the  abyss,  which  won't  be  so 
terrifying,  since  it  involves  no  change  of  method. 
The  cube  must  move  into  the  fourth  dimension,  de- 
veloping there  a  hyper-cube.  This  is  impossible, 
for  the  reason  the  cube  would  have  to  move  out  of 
our  space  altogether — three-dimensional  space  will 
not  contain  a  hyper-cube.  But  neither  is  the  cube 
itself  contained  within  the  plane  of  the  paper;  it  is 
only  there  represented.  The  y  direction  had  to 
be  imagined  and  then  arbitrarily  established;  we 
can  arbitrarily  establish  the  fourth  direction  in  the 
same  way.  As  this  is  at  right  angles  to  y,  its  indi- 
cation may  be  diagonally  downward  and  to  the  left 
— the  direction  z.  As  y  is  known  to  be  at  right 
angles  both  to  w  and  to  x,  z  is  at  right  angles  to  all 

[109] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


three,  and  we  have  thus  established  the  four  mu- 
tually perpendicular  axes  necessary  to  complete 
the  figure. 

The  cube  must  now  move  in  die  z  direction  (the 
fourth  dimension)  a  distance  equal  to  the  length 
of  one  of  its  sides.  Just* as  we  did  previously  in 
the  case  of  the  square,  we  draw  the  cube  in  its  new 
position  (ABB'D'C'C)  and  also  as  before  we 
connect  each  apex  of  the  first  cube  with  the  corre- 
sponding apex  of  the  other,  because  each  of  these 
points  generates  a  line  (an  edge),  each  line  a  plane, 
and  each  plane  a  solid.  This  is  the  tesseract  or 
hyper-cube  in  plane  projection.  It  has  the  16 
points,  32  lines,  and  8  cubes  known  to  compose 
the  figure.  These  cubes  occur  in  pairs,  and  may 
be  readily  identified.^ 

The  tesseract  as  portrayed  in  A,  Figure  14,  is 
shown  according  to  the  conventions  of  oblique,  or 
two-point  perspective ;  it  can  equally  be  represented 
in  a  manner  correspondent  to  parallel  perspective. 
The  parallel  perspective  of  a  cube  appears  as  a 
square  inside  another  square,  with  lines  connecting 
the  four  vertices  of  the  one  with  those  of  the  other. 

1  The  eight  cubes  in  A,  Figure  14,  are  as  follows:  abb'd'c'c; 
ABB'D'C'C;  abdDCA;  a'b'd'D'C'A' ;  abb'B'A'A;  cdd'D'C'C; 
bb'd'D'DB;  aaVC'CA. 

[110] 


PLATE    XIII.     IMAGINARY    COMPOSITION:    THE    AUDIENCE    CHAMBER 


The  Fourth  Dimension 


The  third  dimension  (the  one  beyond  the  plane  of 
the  paper)  is  here  conceived  of  as  being  not  be- 
yond the  boundaries  of  the  first  square,  but  within 
them.  We  may  with  equal  propriety  conceive  of 
the  fourth  dimension  as  a  "beyond  which  is 
within."  In  that  case  we  would  have  a  rendering 
of  the  tesseract  as  shown  in  B,  Figure  14:  a  cube 
within  a  cube,  the  space  between  the  two  being 
occupied  by  six  truncated  pyramids,  each  repre- 
senting a  cube.  The  large  outside  cube  represents 
the  original  generating  cube  at  the  beginning  of 
its  motion  into  the  fourth  dimension,  and  the  small 
inside  cube  represents  it  at  the  end  of  that  motion. 

These  two  projections  of  the  tesseract  upon  plane 
space  are  not  the  only  ones  possible,  but  they  are 
typical.  Some  idea  of  the  variety  of  aspects  may 
be  gained  by  imagining  how  a  nest  of  inter-related 
cubes  (made  of  wire,  so  as  to  interpenetrate),  com- 
bined into  a  single  symmetrical  figure  of  three- 
dimensional  space,  would  appear  from  several  dif- 
ferent directions.  Each  view  would  yield  new 
space-subdivisions,  and  all  would  be  rhythmical — 
susceptible,  therefore,  of  translation  into  ornament. 
C  and  D  represent  such  translations  of  A  and  B. 

In  order  to  fix  these  unfamiliar  ideas  more  firmly 
in  the  reader's  mind,  let  him  submit  himself  to 

[113] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


one  more  exercise  of  the  creative  imagination,  and 
construct,  by  a  slightly  different  method,  a  repre- 
sentation of  a  hexadecahedroid,  or  16-hedroid,  on 
a  plane.  This  regular  solid  of  four-dimensional 
space  consists  of  sixteen  cells,  each  a  regular  tetra- 
hedron, thirty-two  triangular  faces,  twenty-four 
edges  and  eight  vertices.  It  is  the  correlative  of 
the  octahedron  of  three-dimensional  space. 

First  it  is  necessary  to  establish  our  four  axes,  all 
mutually  at  right  angles.  If  we  draw  three  lines 
intersecting  at  a  point,  subtending  angles  of  60  de- 
grees each,  it  is  not  difficult  to  conceive  of  these 
lines  as  being  at  right  angles  with  one  another  in 
three-dimensional  space.  The  fourth  axis  we  will 
assume  to  pass  vertically  through  the  point  of  inter- 
section of  the  three  lines,  so  tliat  we  see  it  only  in 
cross-section,  that  is,  as  a  point.  It  is  important 
to  remember  that  all  of  the  angles  made  by  the  four 
axes  are  right  angles — a  thing  possible  only  in  a 
space  of  four  dimensions.  Because  the  16-hedroid 
is  a  symmetrical  hyper-solid  all  of  its  eight  apexes 
will  be  equidistant  from  the  centre  of  a  containing 
hyper-sphere,  whose  "surface"  these  will  intersect 
at  symmetrically  disposed  points.  These  apexes 
are  established  in  our  representation  by  describing 
a  circle — the  plane  projection  of  the  hyper-sphere 
[114] 


The  Fourth  Dimension 


— about  the  central  point  of  intersection  of  the  axes. 
(Figure  15,  left.)  Where  each  of  these  intersects 
the  circle  an  apex  of  the  16-hedroid  will  be  estab- 
lished. From  each  apex  it  is  now  necessary  to 
draw  straight  lines  to  every  other,  each  line  repre- 
senting one  edge  of  the  sixteen  tetrahedral  cells. 
But  because  the  two  ends  of  the  fourth  axis  are 


the;  16  -HEpEOID  IN  Pl/^  PROJEjdllQN 
Figure  15 


directly  opposite  one  another,  and  opposite  the 
point  of  sight,  all  of  these  lines  fail  to  appear  in  the 
left  hand  diagram.  It  therefore  becomes  neces- 
sary to  tilt  the  figure  slightly,  bringing  into  view 
the  fourth  axis,  much  foreshortened,  and  with  it,  all 
of  the  lines  which  make  up  the  figure.  The  result 
is  that  projection  of  the  16-hedroid  shown  at  the 

[115] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


right  of  Figure  15/  Here  is  no  fortuitous  ar- 
rangement of  lines  and  areas,  but  the  "shadow" 
cast  by  an  archetypal  figure  of  higher  space  upon 
the  plane  of  our  materiality.  It  is  a  wonder,  a 
mystery,  staggering  to  the  imagination,  contradic- 
tory to  experience,  but  as  well  entitled  to  a  place  at 
the  high  court  of  reason  as  are  any  of  the  more 
familiar  figures  with  which  geometry  deals. 
Translated  into  ornament  it  produces  such  an  all- 
over  pattern  as  is  shown  in  Figure  16  and  the  de- 
sign which  adorns  the  curtains  at  right  and  left  of 
pi.  XIII.  There  are  also  other  interesting  projec- 
tions of  the  16-hedroid  which  need  not  be  gone 
into  here. 

For  if  the  author  has  been  successful  in  his  expo- 
sition up  to  this  point,  it  should  be  sufficiently  plain 
that  the  geometry  of  four-dimensions  is  capable  of 
yielding  fresh  and  interesting  ornamental  motifs. 
In  carrying  his  demonstration  farther,  and  in  mul- 
tiplying illustrations,  he  would  only  be  going  over 
ground  already  covered  in  his  book  Projective  Or- 
nament and  in  his  second  Scammon  lecture. 

Of  course  this  elaborate  mechanism  for  produc- 

^  The  sixteen  cells  of  the  hexadehahedroid  are  as  follows:  ABCD 
A'B'C'D':  AB'C'D':  A'BCD:  AB'CD:  A'BC'D:  ABCD:  A'B'CD' 
ABCD':  A'B'C'D:  ABCD':  A'B'CD:  A'BC'D:  AB'CD':  A'BCD' 
AB'C'D. 

[116] 


The  Fourth  Dimension 


ing  quite  obvious  and  even  ordinary  decorative 
motifs  may  appear  to  some  readers  like  Goldberg's 
nightmare  mechanics,  wherein  the  most  absurd  and 
intricate  devices  are  made  to  accomplish  the  most 
simple  ends.  The  author  is  undisturbed  by  such 
criticisms.  If  the  designs  dealt  with  in  this  chap- 
ter are  "obvious  and  even  ordinary"  they  are  so  for 
the  reason  that  they  were  chosen  less  with  an  eye 
to  their  interest  and  beauty  than  as  lending  them- 
selves to  development  and  demonstration  by  an  or- 
derly process  which  should  not  put  too  great  a 
tax  upon  the  patience  and  intelligence  of  the 
reader.     Four-dimensional  geometiy  yields  num- 


Figure  16 


[117] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 

berless  other  patterns  whose  beauty  and  interest 
could  not  possibly  be  impeached — patterns  beyond 
the  compass  of  the  cleverest  designer  unacquainted 
with  projective  "geometry. 

The  great  need  of  the  ornamentalist  is  this  or 
some  other  solid  foundation.  Lacking  it,  he  has 
been  forced  to  build  either  on  the  shifting  sands 
of  his  own  fancy,  or  on  the  wrecks  and  sediment  of 
the  past.  Geometry  provides  this  sure  foundation. 
We  may  have  to  work  hard  and  dig  deep,  but  the 
results  will  be  worth  the  effort,  for  only  on  such  a 
foundation  can  arise  a  temple  which  is  beautiful 
and  strong. 

In  confirmation  of  his  general  contention  that 
the  basis  of  all  effective  decoration  is  geometry  and 
number,  the  author,  in  closing,  desires  to  direct  the 
reader's  attention  to  Figure  17  a  slightly  modified 
rendering  of  the  famous  zodiacal  ceiling  of  the 
Temple  of  Denderah,  in  Egypt.  A  sun  and  its 
corona  have  been  substituted  for  the  zodiacal  signs 
and  symbols  which  fill  the  centre  of  the  original, 
for  except  to  an  Egyptologist  these  are  meaningless. 
In  all  essentials  the  drawing  faithfully  follows  the 
original — was  traced,  indeed,  from  a  measured 
drawing. 

Here  is  one  of  the  most  magnificent  decorative 
[118] 


The  Fourth  Dimension 


^ 
2 


cSUNq  DE]C^OMnON  rKM  THS"  T^MPIJ:  op  DE'NDf^EAH- 
Figure  17 

schemes  in  the  whole  world,  arranged  with  a  feeling 
for  balance  and  rhythm  exceeding  the  power  of  the 
modern  artist,  and  executed  with  a  mastery  beyond 
the  compass  of  a  modern  craftsman.  The  fact  that 
first  forces  itself  upon  the  beholder  is  that  the  thing 
is  so  obviously  mathematical  in  its  rhythms,  that  to 
reduce  it  to  terms  of  geometry  and  number  is  a  mat- 

[119] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


ter  of  small  difficulty.  Compare  the  frozen  music 
of  these  rhymed  and  linked  figures  witli  the  herded, 
confused,  and  cluttered  compositions  of  even  our 
best  decorative  artists,  and  argument  becomes  un- 
necessary— the  fact  stands  forth  that  we  have  lost 
something  precious  and  vital  out  of  art  of  which 
the  ancients  possessed  the  secret. 

It  is  for  the  restoration  of  these  ancient  verities 
and  the  discovery  of  new  spatial  rhythms — made 
possible  by  the  advance  of  mathematical  science 
— that  the  author  pleads.  Artists,  architects,  de- 
signers, instead  of  chewing  the  cud  of  current  fash- 
ion, come  into  these  pastures  new! 


-4 


[120] 


HARNESSING  THE  RAINBOW 

REFERENCE  was  made  in  an  antecedent  es- 
say to  an  art  of  light — of  mobile  color — 
an  abstract  language  of  thought  and  emotion 
which  should  speak  to  consciousness  through  the 
eye,  as  music  speaks  through  the  ear.  This  is  an 
art  unborn,  though  quickening  in  the  womb  of 
the  future.  The  things  that  reflect  light  have  been 
organized  aesthetically  into  the  arts  of  architecture, 
painting,  and  sculpture,  but  light  itself  has  never 
been  thus  organized. 

And  yet  the  scientific  development  and  control 
of  light  has  reached  a  stage  which  makes  this  new 
art  possible.  It  awaits  only  the  advent  of  the  crea- 
tive artist.  The  manipulation  of  light  is  now  in 
the  hands  of  the  illuminating  engineers  and  its  ex- 
ploitation (in  other  than  necessary  ways)  in  the 
hands  of  the  advertisers. 

Some  results  of  their  collaboration  are  seen  in 
the  sky  signs  of  upper  Broadway,  in  New  York, 
and  of  the  lake  front,  in  Chicago.     A  carnival  of 

[121] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


contending  vulgarities,  showing  no  artistry  other 
than  the  most  puerile,  these  displays  nevertheless 
yield  an  effect  of  amazing  beauty.  This  is  on  ac- 
count of  an  occult  property  inherent  in  the  nature 
of  light — it  cannot  be  vulgarized.  If  the  manipu- 
lation of  light  were  delivered  into  the  hands  of  the 
artist,  and  dedicated  to  noble  ends,  it  is  impossible 
to  overestimate  the  augmentation  of  beauty  that 
would  ensue. 

For  light  is  a  far  more  potent  medium  than 
sound.  The  sphere  of  sound  is  tlie  earth-sphere; 
the  little  limits  of  our  atmosphere  mark  the  utter- 
most boundaries  to  which  sound,  even  the  most 
strident  can  possibly  prevail.  But  the  medium  of 
light  is  tlie  ether,  which  links  us  with  the  most  dis- 
tant stars.  May  not  this  serve  as  a  symbol  of  the 
potency  of  light  to  usher  the  human  spirit  into 
realms  of  being  at  the  doors  of  which  music  itself 
shall  beat  in  vain?  Or  if  we  compare  the  universe 
accessible  to  sight  with  that  accessible  to  sound — 
the  plight  of  the  blind  in  contrast  to  that  of  the 
deaf — there  is  the  same  discrepancy;  the  field  of 
the  eye  is  immensely  richer,  more  various  and  more 
interesting  than  that  of  the  ear. 

The  difficulty  appears  to  consist  in  the  inferior 
impressionability  of  the  eye  to  its  particular  order 
[122] 


Harnessing  the  Rainbow 


of  beauty.  To  the  average  man  color — as  color 
— has  nothing  significant  to  say:  to  him  grass  is 
green,  snow  is  white,  the  sky  blue;  and  to  have 
his  attention  drawn  to  the  fact  that  sometimes  grass 
is  yellow,  snow  blue,  and  the  sky  green,  is  discon- 
certing rather  than  illuminating.  It  is  only  when 
his  retina  is  assaulted  by  some  splendid  sunset  or 
sky-encircling  rainbow  that  he  is  able  to  disasso- 
ciate the  idea  of  color  from  that  of  form  and  sub- 
stance. Even  the  artist  is  at  a  disadvantage  in  this 
respect,  when  compared  with  the  musician.  Noth- 
ing in  color  knowledge  and  analysis  analogous  to 
the  established  laws  of  musical  harmony  is  part  of 
the  equipment  of  the  average  artist;  he  plays,  as  it 
were,  by  ear.  The  scientist,  on  the  other  hand, 
though  he  may  know  the  spectrum  from  end  to  end, 
and  its  innumerable  modifications,  values  this 
"rainbow  promise  of  the  Lord"  not  for  its  own 
beautiful  sake  but  as  a  means  to  other  ends  than 
those  of  beauty.  But  just  as  the  art  of  music  has 
developed  the  ear  into  a  fine  and  sensitive  instru- 
ment of  appreciation,  so  an  analogous  art  of  light 
would  educate  the  eye  to  nuances  of  color  to  which 
it  is  now  blind. 

It  is  interesting  to  speculate  as  to  the  particular 
form  in  which  this  new  art  will  manifest  itself. 

[125] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


The  question  is  perhaps  already  answered  in  the 
"color  organ,"  the  earliest  of  which  was  Bam- 
bridge  Bishop's,  exhibited  at  tlie  old  Bamum's 
Museum — before  the  days  of  electric  light — and 
the  latest  A.  W.  Rimington's.  Both  of  these  instru- 
ments were  built  upon  a  supposed  correspondence 
between  a  given  scale  of  colors,  and  the  musical 
chromatic  scale;  they  were  played  from  a  musical 
score  upon  an  organ  keyboard.  This  is  sufficiently 
easy  and  sufficiently  obvious,  and  has  been  done, 
with  varying  success  in  one  way  or  another,  time 
and  again,  but  its  very  ease  and  obviousness  should 
give  us  paiise. 

It  may  well  be  questioned  whether  any  arbitrary 
and  literal  translation,  even  though  practicable,  of 
a  highly  complex,  intensely  mobile  art,  unfolding 
in  time,  as  does  music,  into  a  correspondent  light 
and  color  expression,  is  the  best  approaph  to  a  new 
art  of  mobile  color.  There  is  a  deep  and  abiding 
conviction,  justified  by  the  history  of  aesthetics,  that 
each  art-form  must  progress  from  its  own  begin- 
nings and  unfold  in  its  own  unique  and  character- 
istic way.  Correspondences  between  the  arts — 
such  a  correspondence,  for  example,  as  inspired  the 
famous  saying  that  architecture  is  frozen  music — 
reveal  themselves  usually  only  after  the  sister  arts 
[126] 


Harnessing  the  Rainbow 


have  attained  an  independent  maturity.  They  owe 
their  origin  to  that  underlying  unity  upon  which 
our  various  modes  of  sensuous  perception  act  as 
a  refracting  medium,  and  must  therefore  be  taken 
for  granted.  Each  art,  like  each  individual,  is 
unique  and  singular;  in  this  singularity  dwells  its 
most  thrilling  appeal.  We  are  likely  to  •  miss 
light's  crowning  glory,  and  the  rainbow's  most  mov- 
ing message  to  the  soul  if  we  preoccupy  ourselves 
too  exclusively  with  the  identities  existing  between 
music  and  color;  it  is  rather  their  points  of  dif- 
ference which  should  first  be  dwelt  upon. 

Let  us  accordingly  consider  the  characteristic 
differences  between  the  two  sense-categories  to 
which  sound  and  light — music  and  color — respec- 
tively belong.  This  resolves  itself  into  a  com- 
parison between  time  and  space.  The  characteris- 
tic thing  about  time  is  succession — hence  the  very 
idea  of  music,  which  is  in  time,  involves  perpetual 
change.  The  characteristic  of  space,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  simultaneousness — in  space  alone  perpet- 
ual immobility  would  reign.  That  is  why  archi- 
tecture, which  is  pre-eminently  the  art  of  space,  is 
of  all  the  arts  the  most  static.  Light  and  color 
are  essentially  of  space,  and  therefore  an  art  of  mo- 
bile colour  should  never  lack  a  certain  serenity  and 

[127] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


repose.  A  "tune"  played  on  a  color  organ  is  only 
distressing.  If  there  is  a  workable  correspondence 
between  the  musical  art  and  an  art  of  mobile 
color,  it  will  be  found  in  the  domain  of  harmony 
which  involves  the  idea  of  simultaneity,  rather  than 
in  melody,  which  is  pure  succession.  This  funda- 
mental difference  between  time  and  space  cannot 
be  over-emphasized.  A  musical  note  prolonged, 
becomes  at  last  scarcely  tolerable;  while  a  beauti- 
ful color,  like  the  blue  of  the  sky,  we  can  enjoy  all 
day  and  every  day.  The  changing  hues  of  a  sun- 
set, are  andante  if  referred  to  a  musical  standard, 
but  to  the  eye  they  are  allegretto — we  would  have 
them  pass  less  swiftly  than  they  do.  The  winking, 
chasing,  changing  lights  of  illuminated  sky-signs 
are  only  annoying,  and  for  the  same  reason.  The 
eye  longs  for  repose  in  some  serene  radiance  or 
stately  sequence,  while  the  ear  delights  in  contrast 
and  continual  change.  It  may  be  that  as  the  eye 
becomes  more  educated  it  will  demand  more  move- 
ment and  complexity,  but  a  certain  stillness  and 
serenity  are  of  the  very  nature  of  light,  as  move- 
ment and  passion  are  of  the  very  nature  of  sound. 
Music  is  a  seeking — "love  in  search  of  a  word"; 
light  is  a  finding — a  "divine  covenant." 

With  attention  still  focussed  on  the  differences 
[128] 


Harnessing  the  Rainbow 


rather  than  the  similarities  between  the  musical  art 
and  a  new  art  of  mobile  color,  we  come  next  to 
the  consideration  of  the  matter  of  form.  Now 
form  is  essentially  of  space:  we  speak  about  the 
"form"  of  a  musical  composition,  but  it  is  in  a 
more  or  less  figurative  and  metaphysical  sense,  not 
as  a  thing  concrete  and  palpable,  like  the  forms  of 
space.  It  would  be  foolish  to  forego  the  advantage 
of  linking  up  form  with  colour,  as  there  is  oppor- 
tunity to  do.  Here  is  another  golden  ball  to  juggle 
with,  one  which  no  art  purely  in  time  affords.  Of 
course  it  is  known  that  musical  sounds  weave  in- 
visible patterns  in  the  air,  and  to  render  these  pat- 
terns perceptible  to  the  eye  may  be  one  of  the  more 
remote  and  recondite  achievements  of  our  uncre- 
ated art.  Meantime,  though  we  have  the  whole 
treasury  of  natural  forms  to  draw  from,  of  these  we 
can  only  properly  employ  such  as  are  abstract. 
The  reason  for  this  is  clear  to  any  one  who  con- 
ceives of  an  art  of  mobile  color,  not  as  a  moving 
picture  show — a  thing  of  quick-passing  concrete 
images,  to  shock,  to  startle,  or  to  charm — but  as  a 
rich  and  various  language  in  which  light,  prover- 
bially the  symbol  of  the  spirit,  is  made  to  speak, 
through  the  senses,  some  healing  message  to  the 
soul.     For  such  a  consummation,  "devoutly  to  be 

[129] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 

wished,"  natural  forms — forms  abounding  in  every 
kind  of  association  with  that  world  of  materiality 
from  which  we  would  escape — are  out  of  place;  re- 
course must  be  had  rather  to  abstract  forms,  that  is, 
geometrical  figures.  And  because  the  more  remote 
these  are  from  the  things  of  sense,  from  knowledge 
and  experience,  the  projected  figures  of  four-di- 
mensional geometry  would  lend  themselves  to  these 
uses  with  an  especial  grace.  Color  without  form 
is  as  a  soul  without  a  body;  yet  the  body  of  light 
must  be  without  any  taint  of  materiality.  Four-di- 
mensional forms  are  as  immaterial  as  anything  that 
could  be  imagined  and  they  could  be  made  to  serve 
the  useful  purpose  of  separating  colors  one  from 
another,  as  lead  lines  do  in  old  cathedral  windows, 
than  which  nothing  more  beautiful  has  ever  been 
devised. 

Coming  now  to  the  consideration,  not  of  differ- 
ences, but  similarities,  it  is  clear  that  a  correspond- 
ence can  be  established  between  the  colors  of  the 
spectrum  and  the  notes  of  a  musical  scale.  That 
is,  the  spectrum,  considered  as  the  analogue  of  a 
musical  octave  can  be  subdivided  into  twelve  col- 
ors which  may  be  representative  of  the  musical 
chromatic  scale  of  twelve  semi-tones:  the  very  word, 
chromatic,  being  suggestive  of  such  a  correspond- 
[130] 


Harnessing  the  Rainbow 


ence  between  sound  and  light.  The  red  end  of  the 
spectrum  would  naturally  relate  to  the  low  notes  of 
the  musical  scale,  and  the  violet  end  to  the  high, 
by  reason  of  the  relative  rapidity  of  vibration  in 
each  case;  for  the  octave  of  a  musical  note  sets  the 
air  vibrating  twice  as  rapidly  as  does  the  note  itself, 
and  roughly  speaking,  the  same  is  true  of  the  end 
colors  of  the  spectrum  with  relation  to  the  ether. 

But  assuming  that  a  color  scale  can  be  estab- 
lished which  would  yield  a  color  correlative  to 
any  musical  note  or  chord,  there  still  remains  the 
matter  of  values  to  be  dealt  with.  In  the  musical 
scale  there  is  a  practical  equality  of  values:  one 
note  is  as  potent  as  another.  In  a  color  scale,  on 
the  other  hand,  each  note  (taken  at  its  greatest  in- 
tensity) has  a  positive  value  of  its  own,  and  they 
are  all  different.  These  values  have  no  musical 
correlatives,  they  belong  to  color  per  se.  Every 
colorist  knows  that  the  whole  secret  of  beauty  and 
brilliance  dwells  in  a  proper  understanding  and 
adjustment  of  values,  and  music  is  powerless  to 
help  him  here.  Let  us  therefore  defer  the  discus- 
sion of  this  musical  parallel,  which  is  full  of  pit- 
falls, until  we  have  made  some  examination  into 
such  simple  emotional  reactions  as  color  can  be 
discovered  to  yield.     The  musical  art  began  from 

[131] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


the  emotional  response  to  certain  simple  tones  and 
combinations,  and  the  delight  of  the  ear  in  their 
repetition  and  variation. 

On  account  of  our  undeveloped  sensitivity,  the 
emotional  reactions  to  color  are  found  to  be 
largely  personal  and  whimsical:  one  person  "loves" 
pink,  another  purple,  or  green.  Color  therapeu- 
tics is  too  new  a  thing  to  be  relied  upon  for  data, 
for  even  though  colors  are  susceptible  of  classifica- 
tion as  sedative,  recuperative  and  stimulating,  no 
two  classifications  arrived  at  independently  would 
be  likely  to  correspond.  Most  people  appear  to 
prefer  bright,  pure  colors  when  presented  to  them 
in  small  areas,  red  and  blue  being  the  favourites. 
Certain  data  have  been  accumulated  regarding  the 
physiological  effect  and  psychological  value  of  dif- 
ferent colors,  but  this  order  of  research  is  in  its 
infancy,  and  we  shall  have  recourse,  therefore,  to 
theory,  in  the  absence  of  any  safer  guide. 

One  of  the  theories  which  may  be  said  to  have 
justified  itself  in  practice  in  a  different  field  is  that 
upon  which  is  based  Delsarte's  famous  art  of  ex- 
pression. It  has  schooled  some  of  the  finest  actors 
in  the  world,  and  raised  others  from  mediocrity  to 
distinction.  The  Delsarte  system  is  founded  upon 
the  idea  that  man  is  a  triplicity  of  physical,  emo- 
[132] 


Harnessing  the  Rainbow 


tional,  and  intellectual  qualities  or  attributes,  and 
that  the  entire  body  and  every  part  thereof  con- 
forms to,  and  expresses  this  triplicity.  The  gen- 
erative and  digestive  region  corresponds  with  the 
physical  nature,  the  breast  with  the  emotional,  and 
the  head  with  the  intellectual;  "below"  represents 
the  nadir  of  ignorance  and  dejection,  "above"  the 
zenith  of  wisdom  and  spiritual  power.  This  seems 
a  natural,  and  not  an  arbitrary  classification,  hav- 
ing interesting  confirmations  and  correspondencies, 
both  in  the  outer  world  of  form,  and  in  the  inner 
world  of  consciousness.  Moreover,  it  is  in  accord 
with  that  theosophic  scheme  derived  from  the  an- 
cient and  august  wisdom  of  the  East,  which  longer 
and  better  than  any  other  has  withstood  the  obliter- 
ating action  of  slow  time,  and  is  even  now  renascent. 
Let  us  therefore  attempt  to  classify  the  colors  of 
the  spectrum  according  to  this  theory,  and  discover 
if  we  can  how  nearly  such  a  classification  is  con- 
formable to  reason  and  experience. 

The  red  end  of  the  spectrum,  being  lowest  in 
vibratory  rate,  would  correspond  to  the  physical 
nature,  proverbially  more  sluggish  than  the  emo- 
tional and  mental.  The  phrase  "like  a  red  rag  to 
a  bull,"  suggests  a  relation  between  the  color  red 
and  the  animal  consciousness  established  by  obser- 

[133] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


vation.  The  "low-brow"  is  the  dear  lover  of  the 
red  necktie;  the  "high-brow"  is  he  who  sees  violet 
shadows  on  the  snow.  We  "see  red"  when  we  are 
dominated  by  ignoble  passion.  Though  the  color 
green  is  associated  with  the  idea  of  jealousy,  it  is 
associated  also  with  the  idea  of  sympathy,  and 
jealousy  in  the  last  analysis  is  the  fear  of  the  loss 
of  sympathy;  it  belongs,  at  all  events  to  the  mediant, 
or  emotional  group  of  colors;  while  blue  and  vio- 
let are  proverbially  intellectual  and  spiritual  col- 
ors, and  their  place  in  the  spectrum  therefore  con- 
forms to  the  demands  of  our  theoretical  division. 
Here,  then,  is  something  reasonably  certain,  cer- 
tainly reasonable,  and  may  serve  as  an  hypothesis 
to  be  confirmed  or  confuted  by  subsequent  research. 
Coming  now  finally  to  the  consideration  of  the 
musical  parallel,  let  us  divide  a  color  scale  of 
twelve  steps  or  semi-tones  into  three  groups;  each 
group,  graphically  portrayed,  subtending  one-third 
of  the  arc  of  a  circle.  The  first  or  red  group  will 
be  related  to  the  physical  nature,  and  will  consist  of 
purple-red,  red,  red-orange,  and  orange.  The  sec- 
ond, or  green  group  will  be  related  to  the  emotional 
nature,  and  will  consist  of  yellow,  yellow-green, 
green,  and  green-blue.  The  third,  or  blue  group 
will  be  related  to  the  intellectual  and  spiritual  na- 
[134] 


Harnessing  the  Rainbow 


ture,  and  will  consist  of  blue,  blue-violet,  violet  and 
purple.  The  merging  of  purple  into  purple-red 
will  then  correspond  to  the  meeting  place  of  the 
highest  with  the  lowest,  "spirit"  and  "matter."  We 
conceive  of  this  meeting-place  symbolically  as  the 
"heart" — the  vital  centre.  Now  "sanguine"  is  the 
appropriate  name  associated  with  the  color  of  the 
blood — a  color  between  purple  and  purple-red. 
It  is  logical,  therefore,  to  regard  this  point  in  our 
color-scale  as  its  tonic — "middle  C" — though  each 
color,  just  as  in  music  each  note,  is  itself  the  tonic 
of  a  scale  of  its  own. 

Mr.  Louis  Wilson — the  author  of  the  above  "oph- 
thalmic color  scale"  makes  the  same  affiliation  be- 
tween sanguine,  or  blood  color,  and  middle  C,  led 
thereto  by  scientific  reasons  entirely  unassociated 
with  symbolism.  He  has  omitted  orange-yellow 
and  violet-purple;  this  makes  the  scale  conform 
more  exactly  with  the  diatonic  scale  of  two  tetra- 
chords;  it  also  gives  a  greater  range  of  purples, 
a  color  indispensable  to  the  artist.  Moreover,  in 
the  scale  as  it  stands,  each  color  is  exactly  opposite 
its  true  spectral  complementary. 

The  color  scale  being  thus  established  and 
broadly  divided,  the  next  step  is  to  find  how  well 
it  justifies  itself  in  practice.     The  most  direct  way 

[135] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


would  be  to  translate  the  musical  chords  recognized 
and  dealt  with  in  the  science  of  harmony  into  their 
corresponding  color  combinations. 

For  the  benefit  of  such  readers  as  have  no  knowl- 
edge of  musical  harmony  it  should  be  said  that  the 
entire  science  of  harmony  is  based  upon  the  triad, 
or  chord  of  three  notes,  and  that  there  are  various 
kinds  of  triads:  the  major,  the  minor,  the  aug- 
mented, the  diminished,  and  the  altered.  The 
major  triad  consists  of  the  first  note  of  the  diatonic 
scale,  or  tonic;  its  third,  and  its  fifth.  The  minor 
triad  differs  from  the  major  only  in  that  the  second 
member  is  lowered  a  semi-tone.  The  augmented 
triad  differs  from  the  major  only  in  that  the  third 
member  is  raised  a  semi-tone.  The  diminished 
triad  differs  from  the  minor  only  in  that  the  third 
member  is  lowered  a  semi-tone.  The  altered  triad 
is  a  chord  different  by  a  semi-tone  from  any  of 
the  above. 

The  major  triad  in  color  is  formed  by  taking 
any  one  of  the  twelve  color-centers  of  the  ophthal- 
mic color  scale  as  the  first  member  of  the  triad; 
and,  reading  up  the  scale,  the  fifth  step  (each  step 
representing  a  semi-tone)  determines  the  second 
member,  while  the  third  member  is  found  in  the 
eighth  step.  The  minor  triad  in  color  is  formed 
[136] 


Harnessing  the  Rainbow 


by  lowering  the  second  member  of  the  major  triad 
one  step;  the  augmented  triad  by  raising  the  third 
member  of  the  major  triad  one  step,  and  the  dimin- 
ished triad  by  lowering  the  third  member  of  the 
minor  triad  one  step. 


ViDl£T 

MAJOIi- TRIAD 


MINOR.  YIU  AD 


Figure  18 

These  various  triads  are  shown  graphically  in 

[137] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


Figure  18  as  triangles  within  a  circle  divided  into 
twelve  equal  parts,  each  part  representing  a  semi- 
tone of  the  chromatic  scale.  It  is  seen  at  a  glance 
that  in  every  case  each  triad  has  one  of  its  notes 
(an  apex)  in  or  immediately  adjacent  to  a  dif- 
ferent one  of  the  grand  divisions  of  the  colour  scale 
hereinbefore  established  and  described,  and  that 
the  same  thing  would  be  true  in  any  "key":  that  is, 
by  any  variation  of  the  point  of  departure. 

This  certainly  satisfies  the  mind  in  that  it  sug- 
gests variety  in  unity,  balance,  completeness,  and  in 
the  actual  portrayal,  in  color,  of  these  chords  in 
any  "key"  this  judgment  is  confirmed  by  the  eye, 
provided  that  the  colors  have  been  thrown  into 
proper  harmonic  suppression.  By  this  is  meant 
such  an  adjustment  of  relative  values,  or  such  an 
establishment  of  relative  proportions  as  will  pro- 
duce the  maximum  of  beauty  of  which  any  given 
combination  is  capable.  This  matter  imperatively 
demands  an  aesthetic  sense  the  most  sensitive. 

So  this  "musical  parallel,'  interesting  and  rea- 
sonable as  it  is,  will  not  carry  the  color  harmonist 
very  far,  and  if  followed  too  literally  it  is  even 
likely  to  hamper  him  in  the  higher  reaches  of  his 
art,  for  some  of  the  musical  dissonances  are  of 
great  beauty  in  color  translation.  All  that  can 
Ll38] 


Harnessing  the  Rainbow 


safely  be  said  in  regard  to  the  musical  parallel  in 
its  present  stage  of  development  is  that  it  simplifies 
and  systematizes  color  knowledge  and  experiment 
and  to  a  beginner  it  is  highly  educational. 

If  we  are  to  have  color  symphonies,  the  best 
are  not  likely  to  be  those  based  on  a  literal  trans- 
lation of  some  musical  masterpiece  into  color 
according  to  this  or  any  theory,  but  those  created  by 
persons  who  are  emotionally  reactive  to  this 
medium,  able  to  imagine  in  color,  and  to  treat  it 
imaginatively.  The  most  beautiful  mobile  color 
effects  yet  witnessed  by  the  author  were  produced 
on  a  field  only  five  inches  square,  by  an  eminent 
painter  quite  ignorant  of  music;  while  some  of  the 
most  unimpressive  have  been  the  result  of  a  rigid 
adherence  to  the  musical  parallel  by  persons  intent 
on  cutting,  with  this  sword,  this  Gordian  knot. 

Into  the  subject  of  means  and  methods  it  is  not 
proposed  to  enter,  nor  to  attempt  to  answer  such 
questions  as  to  whether  the  light  shall  be  direct  or 
projected;  whether  the  spectator,  wrapped  in  dark- 
ness, shall  watch  the  music  unfold  at  the  end  of 
some  mysterious  vista,  or  whether  his  whole  organ- 
ism shall  be  played  upon  by  powerful  waves  of 
"multi-coloured  light.  These  coupled  alternatives 
are  not  mutually  exclusive,  any  more  than  the  idea 

[139] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


of  an  orchestra  is  exclusive  of  that  of  a  single  hu- 
man voice. 

In  imagining  an  art  of  mobile  color  uncondi- 
tioned by  considerations  of  mechanical  difficulty  or 
of  expense,  ideas  multiply  in  truly  bewildering  pro- 
fusion. Sunsets,  solar  coronas,  star  spectra,  au- 
roras such  as  were  never  seen  on  sea  or  land ;  rain- 
bows, bubbles,  rippling  water;  flaming  volcanoes, 
lava  streams  of  living  light — these  and  a  hundred 
other  enthralling  and  perfectly  realizable  effects 
suggest  themselves.  What  Israfil  of  the  future  will 
pour  on  mortals  this  new  "music  of  the  spheres"? 


[140] 


LOUIS  SULLIVAN 
PROPHET  OF  DEMOCRACY 

DUE  tribute  has  been  paid  to  Mr.  Louis  Sulli- 
van as  an  architect  in  the  first  essay  of  this 
volume.  That  aspect  of  his  genius  has 
been  critically  dealt  with  by  many,  but  as  an  author 
he  is  scarcely  known.  Yet  there  are  Sibylline 
leaves  of  his,  still  let  us  hope  in  circulation,  which 
have  wielded  a  potent  influence  on  the  minds  of  a 
generation  of  men  now  passing  to  maturity.  It  is 
in  the  hope  that  his  message  may  not  be  lost  to  the 
youth  of  today  and  of  tomorrow  that  the  present 
author  now  undertakes  to  summarize  and  interpret 
that  message  to  a  public  to  which  Mr.  Sullivan  is 
indeed  a  name,  but  not  a  voice. 

That  he  is  not  a  voice  can  be  attributed  neither 
to  his  lack  of  eloquence — for  he  is  eloquent — nor 
to  the  indiff"erence  of  the  younger  generation  of 
architects  which  has  grown  up  since  he  has  ceased, 
in  any  public  way,  to  speak.  It  is  due  rather  to  a 
curious  fatality  whereby  his  memorabilia  have  been 

[141] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


confined  to  sheets  which  the  winds  of  time  have 
scattered — pamphlets,  ephemeral  magazines,  trade 
journals — never  the  bound  volume  which  alone 
guards  the  sacred  flame  from  the  gusts  of  evil 
chance. 

And  Mr.  Sullivan's  is  a  "sacred  flame,"  because 
it  was  kindled  solely  with  the  idea  of  service — a 
beacon  to  keep  young  men  from  shipwreck  travers- 
ing those  straits  made  dangerous  by  the  Scylla  of 
Conventionality,  and  die  Charybdis  of  License. 
The  labour  his  writing  cost  him  was  enormous.  "I 
shall  never  again  make  so  great  a  sacrifice  for  the 
younger  generation,"  he  says  in  a  letter,  "I  am 
amazed  to  note  how  insignificant,  how  almost  nil  is 
the  effect  produced,  in  comparison  to  the  cost,  in 
vitality  to  me.  Or  perhaps  it  is  I  who  am  in  error. 
Perhaps  one  must  have  reached  middle  age,  or  the 
Indian  Summer  of  life,  must  have  seen  much,  heard 
much,  felt  and  produced  much  and  been  much  in 
solitude  to  receive  in  reading  what  I  gave  in  writing 
'with  hands  overfull.'  " 

This  was  written  with  reference  to  Kindergarten 
Chats.  A  sketch  Analysis  of  Contemporaneous 
American  Architecture,  which  constitutes  Mr.  Sul- 
livan's most  extended  and  characteristic  preach- 
ment to  the  young  men  of  his  day.  It  appeared  in 
[142] 


Louis  Sullivan 


1901,  in  fifty-two  consecutive  numbers  of  The  Inter- 
state Architect  and  Builder,  a  magazine  now  no 
longer  published.  In  it  the  author,  as  mentor, 
leads  an  imaginary  disciple  up  and  down  the  land, 
pointing  out  to  him  the  "bold,  upholsterrific  blun- 
ders" to  be  found  in  the  architecture  of  the  day, 
and  commenting  on  them  in  a  caustic,  colloquial 
style — large,  loose,  discursive — a  blend  of  Ruskin, 
Carlyle  and  Whitman,  yet  all  Mr.  Sullivan's  own. 
He  descends,  at  times,  almost  to  ribaldry,  at  others 
he  rises  to  poetic  and  prophetic  heights.  This  is 
all  a  part  of  his  method  alternately  to  shame  and 
inspire  his  pupil  to  some  sort  of  creative  activity. 
The  syllabus  of  Mr.  Sullivan's  scheme,  as  it  existed 
in  his  mind  during  the  writing  of  Kindergarten 
Chats,  and  outlined  by  him  in  a  letter  to  the  author 
is  such  a  torch  of  illumination  that  it  is  quoted  here 
entire. 

A  young  man  who  has  "finished  his  education"  at  the 
architectural  schools  comes  to  me  for  a  post-graduate 
course — hence  a  free  form  of  dialogue. 

I  proceed  with  his  education  rather  by  indirection  and 
suggestion  than  by  direct  precept.  I  subject  him  to  cer- 
tain experiences  and  allow  the  impressions  they  make  on 
him  to  infiltrate,  and,  as  I  note  the  effect,  I  gradually 
use  a  guiding  hand.  I  supply  the  yeast,  so  to  speak,  and 
allow  the  ferment  to  work  in  him. 

[143] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


This  is  the  gist  of  the  whole  scheme.  It  remains  then 
to  determine,  carefully,  the  kind  of  experiences  to  which 
I  shall  subject  the  lad,  and  in  what  order,  or  logical 
(and  especially  psychological)  sequence.  I  begin,  then, 
with  aspects  that  are  literal,  objective,  more  or  less  cyn- 
ical, and  brutal,  and  philistine.  A  little  at  a  time  I 
introduce  the  subjective,  the  refined,  the  altruistic;  and, 
by  a  to-and-fro  increasingly  intense  rhythm  of  these  two 
opposing  themes,  worked  so  to  speak  in  counterpoint,  I 
reach  a  preliminary  climax:  of  brutality  tempered  by  a 
longing  for  nobler,  purer  things. 

Hence  arise  a  purblind  revulsion  and  yearning  in  the 
lad's  soul;  the  psychological  moment  has  arrived,  and  I 
take  him  at  once  into  the  country — (Summer:  The 
Storm) .  This  is  the  first  of  the  four  out-of-door  scenes, 
and  the  lad's  first  real  experience  with  nature.  It  im- 
presses him  crudely  but  violently;  and  in  the  tense  ex- 
citement of  the  tempest  he  is  inspired  to  temporary  elo- 
quence; and  at  the  close  is  much  softened.  He  feels  in 
a  way  but  does  not  know  that  he  has  been  a  participant 
in  one  of  Nature's  superb  dramas.  (Thus  do  I  insidi- 
ously prepare  the  way  for  the  notion  that  creative  archi- 
tecture is  in  essence  a  dramatic  art,  and  an  art  of  elo- 
quence; of  subtle  rhythmic  beauty,  power,  and  tender- 
ness) . 

Left  alone  in  the  country  the  lad  becomes  maudlin — 
a  callow  lover  of  nature — and  makes  feeble  attempts  at 
verse.  Returning  to  the  city  he  melts  and  unbosoms — 
the  tender  shaft  of  the  unknowable  Eros  has  penetrated 
to  his  heart — Nature's  subtle  spell  is  on  him,  to  disappear 


[144] 


Louis  Sullivan 


and  reappear.  Then  follow  discussions,  more  or  less 
didactic,  leading  to  the  second  out-of-door  scene  (Autumn 
Glory).  Here  the  lad  does  most  of  the  talking  and 
shows  a  certain  lucidity  and  calm  of  mind.  The  discus- 
sion of  Responsibility,  Democracy,  Education,  etc.,  has 
inevitably  detached  the  lurking  spirit  of  pessimism.  It 
has  to  be: — Into  the  depths  and  darkness  we  descend, 
and  the  work  reaches  the  tragic  climax  in  the  third  out- 
of-door  scene — Winter, 

Now  that  the  forces  have  been  gathered  and  mar- 
shalled the  true,  sane  movement  of  the  work  is  entered 
upon  and  pushed  at  high  tension,  and  with  swift,  copious 
modulations  to  its  foreordained  climax  and  optimistic 
peroration  in  the  fourth  and  last  out-of-door  scene  as 
portrayed  in  the  Spring  Song.  The  locale  of  this  clos- 
ing number  is  the  beautiful  spot  in  the  woods,  on  the 
shore  of  Biloxi  Bay: — where  I  am  writing  this. 

I  would  suggest  in  passing  that  a  considerable  part  of 
the  K.  C.  is  in  rhythmic  prose — some  of  it  declamatory. 
I  have  endeavoured  throughout  this  work  to  represent, 
or  reproduce  to  the  mind  and  heart  of  the  reader  the 
spoken  word  and  intonation — not  written  language.  It 
really  should  be  read  aloud,  especially  the  descriptive 
and  exalted  passages. 

There  was  a  movement  once  on  the  part  of  Mr. 
Sullivan's  admirers  to  issue  Kindergarten  Chats  in 
book  form,  but  he  was  asked  to  tone  it  down  and 
expurgate  it,  a  thing  which  he  very  naturally  re- 
fused to  do.     Mr.  Sullivan  has  always  been  com- 

[145] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


pletely  alive  to  our  cowardice  when  it  comes  to 
hearing  the  truth  about  ourselves,  and  alive  to  the 
danger  which  this  cowardice  entails,  for  to  his  im- 
aginary pupil  he  says, 

If  you  wish  to  read  the  current  architecture  of  your 
country,  you  must  go  at  it  courageously,  and  not  pick  out 
merely  the  little  bits  that  please  you.  I  am  going  to 
soak  you  with  it  until  you  are  absolutely  nauseated,  and 
your  faculties  turn  in  rebellion.  I  may  be  a  hard  task- 
master, but  I  strive  to  be  a  good  one.  When  I  am 
through  with  you,  you  will  know  architecture  from  the 
ground  up.  You  will  know  its  virtuous  reality  and  you 
will  know  the  fake  and  the  fraud  and  the  humbug.  I  will 
spare  nothing — for  your  sake.  I  will  stir  up  the  cess- 
pool to  its  utmost  depths  of  stench,  and  also  the  pious, 
hypocritical  virtues  of  our  so-called  architecture — the 
nice,  good,  mealy-mouthed,  suave,  dexterous,  diplomatic 
architecture,  I  will  show  you  also  the  kind  of  architect- 
ure our  "cultured"  people  believe  in.  And  why  do  they 
believe  in  it?  Because  they  do  not  believe  in  them- 
selves. 

Kindergarten  Chats  is  even  more  pertinent 
and  pointed  today  than  it  was  some  twenty  years 
ago,  when  it  was  written.  Speech  that  is  full  of 
truth  is  timeless,  and  therefore  prophetic.  Mr, 
Sullivan  forecast  some  of  the  very  evils  by  which 
we  have  been  overtaken.     He  was  able  to  do  this 

[146] 


Louis  Sullivan 


on  account  of  the  fundamental  soundness  of  his 
point  of  view,  which  finds  expression  in  the  follow- 
ing words:  "Once  you  learn  to  look  upon  archi- 
tecture not  merely  as  an  art  more  or  less  well,  or 
more  or  less  badly  done,  but  as  a  social  manifesta- 
tion, the  critical  eye  becomes  clairvoyant,  and  ob- 
scure, unnoted  phenomena  become  illumined." 

Looking,  from  this  point  of  view,  at  the  office 
buildings  that  the  then  newly-realized  possibilities 
of  steel  construction  were  sending  skyward  along 
lower  Broadway,  in  New  York,  Mr.  Sullivan  reads 
in  them  a  denial  of  democracy.  To  him  they  sig- 
nify much  more  than  they  seem  to,  or  mean  to ;  they 
are  more  than  the  betrayal  of  architectural  igno- 
rance and  mendacity,  they  are  symptomatic  of 
forces  undermining  American  life. 

These  buildings,  as  they  increase  in  number,  make 
this  city  poorer,  morally  and  spiritually;  they  drag  it 
down  and  down  into  the  mire.  This  is  not  American 
civilization;  it  is  the  rottenness  of  Gomorrah.  This  is 
not  Democracy — it  is  savagery.  It  shows  the  glutton 
hunt  for  the  Dollar  with  no  thought  for  aught  else  under 
the  sun  or  over  the  earth.  It  is  decadence  of  the  spirit 
in  its  most  revolting  form;  it  is  rottenness  of  the  heart 
and  corruption  of  the  mind.  So  truly  does  this  archi- 
tecture reflect  the  causes  which  have  brought  it  into 
being.     Such  structures  are  profoundly  anti-social,  and 

[147] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


as  such,  they  must  be  reckoned  with.  These  buildings 
are  not  architecture,  but  outlawry,  and  their  authors  crim- 
inals in  the  true  sense  of  the  word.  And  such  is  the 
architecture  of  lower  New  York — hopeless,  degraded, 
and  putrid  in  its  pessimistic  denial  of  our  art,  and  of 
our  growing  civilization — its  cynical  contempt  for  all 
those  qualities  that  real  humans  value. 

We  have  always  been  very  glib  about  democracy ; 
we  have  assumed  that  this  country  was  a  democracy 
because  we  named  it  so.  But  now  that  we  are 
called  upon  to  die  for  the  idea,  we  find  that  we 
have  never  realized  it  anywhere  except  perhaps  in 
our  secret  hearts.  In  the  life  of  Abraham  Lincoln, 
in  the  poetry  of  Walt  Whitman,  in  the  architecture 
of  Louis  Sullivan,  the  spirit  of  democracy  found 
utterance,  and  to  the  extent  that  we  ourselves  par- 
take of  that  spirit,  it  will  find  utterance  also  in  us. 
Mr.  Sullivan  is  a  "prophet  of  democracy"  not  alone 
in  his  buildings  but  in  his  writings,  and  the  pro- 
phetic note  is  sounded  even  more  clearly  in  his 
What  is  Architecture?  A  Study  in  the  American 
People  of  Today,  than  in  Kindergarten  Chats. 

This  essay  was  first  printed  in  The  American 
Contractor  of  January  6,  1906,  and  afterwards  is- 
sued in  brochure  form.  The  author  starts  by  trac- 
ing architecture  to  its  root  in  the  human  mind:  this 
[148] 


Louis  Sullivan 


physical  thing  is  the  manifestation  of  a  psychologi- 
cal state.  As  a  man  thinks,  so  he  is ;  he  acts  accord- 
ing to  his  thought,  and  if  that  act  takes  the  form 
of  a  building  it  is  an  emanation  of  his  inmost  life, 
and  reveals  it. 

Everything  is  there  for  us  to  read,  to  interpret;  and 
this  we  may  do  at  our  leisure.  The  building  has  not 
means  of  locomotion,  it  cannot  hide  itself,  it  cannot  get 
away.  There  it  is,  and  there  it  will  stay — telling  more 
truths  about  him  who  made  it,  than  he  in  his  fatuity 
imagines;  revealing  his  mind  and  his  heart  exactly  for 
what  they  are  worth,  not  a  whit  more,  not  a  whit  less; 
telling  plainly  the  lies  he  thinks;  telling  with  almost 
cruel  truthfulness  his  bad  faith,  his  feeble,  wabbly  mind, 
his  impudence,  his  selfish  egoism,  his  mental  irrespon- 
sibility, his  apathy,  his  disdain  for  real  things — until  at 
last  the  building  says  to  us:  "I  am  no  more  a  real 
building  than  the  thing  that  made  me  is  a  real  man!" 

Language  like  this  stings  and  burns,  but  it  is  just 
such  as  is  needful  to  shame  us  out  of  our  comfort- 
able apathy,  to  arouse  us  to  new  responsibilities, 
new  opportunities.  Mr.  Sullivan,  awake  among 
the  sleepers,  drenches  us  with  bucketfuls  of  cold, 
tonic,  energizing  truth.  The  poppy  and  mandra- 
gora  of  the  past,  of  Europe,  poisons  us,  but  in  this, 
our  hour  of  battle,  we  must  not  be  permitted  to 
dream  on.     He  saw,  from  far  back,  that  "we,  as  a 

[149] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


people,  not  only  have  hetrayed  each  other,  but  have 
failed  in  that  trust  which  the  world  spirit  of  democ- 
racy placed  in  our  hands,  as  we,  a  new  people, 
emerged  to  fill  a  new  and  spacious  land."  It  has 
taken  a  world  war  to  make  us  see  the  situation  as 
he  saw  it,  and  it  is  to  us,  a  militant  nation,  and  not 
to  the  slothful  civilians  a  decade  ago,  that  Mr.  Sul- 
livan's stirring  message  seems  to  be  addressed. 

The  following  quotation  is  his  first  crack  of  the 
whip  at  the  architectural  schools.  The  problem  of 
education  is  to  him  of  all  things  the  most  vital;  in 
this  essay  he  returns  to  it  again  and  again,  while  of 
Kindergarten  Chats  it  is  the  very  raison  d'etre. 

I  trust  that  a  long  disquisition  is  not  necessary  in  order 
to  show  that  the  attempt  at  imitation,  by  us,  of  this  day, 
of  the  by-gone  forms  of  building,  is  a  procedure  un- 
worthy of  a  free  people;  and  that  the  dictum  of  the 
schools,  that  Architecture  is  finished  and  done,  is  a  sug- 
gestion humiliating  to  every  active  brain,  and  therefore, 
in  fact,  a  puerility  and  a  falsehood  when  weighed  in 
the  scales  of  truly  democratic  thought.  Such  dictum 
gives  the  lie  in  arrogant  fashion,  to  healthful  human  ex- 
perience. It  says,  in  a  word:  the  American  people 
are  not  fit  for  democracy. 

He  finds  the  schools  saturated  with  superstitions 
which  are  the  survivals  of  the  scholasticism  of  past 
[150] 


Louis  Sullivan 


centuries — feudal  institutions,  in  effect,  inimical  to 
his  idea  of  the  true  spirit  of  democratic  education. 
This  he  conceives  of  as  a  searching-out,  liberating, 
and  developing  the  splendid  but  obscured  powers 
of  the  average  man,  and  particularly  those  of  chil- 
dren. "It  is  disquieting  to  note,"  he  says,  "that 
the  system  of  education  on  which  we  lavish  funds 
with  such  generous,  even  prodigal,  hand,  falls  short 
of  fulfilling  its  true  democratic  function;  and  that 
particularly  in  the  so-called  higher  branches  its 
tendency  appears  daily  more  reactionary,  more 
feudal.  It  is  not  an  agreeable  reflection  that  so 
many  of  our  university  graduates  lack  the  trained 
ability  to  see  clearly,  and  to  think  clearly,  con- 
cisely, constructively;  that  there  is  perhaps  more 
showing  of  cynicism  than  good  faith,  seemingly 
more  distrust  of  men  than  confidence  in  them,  and, 
withal,  no  consummate  ability  to  interpret  things." 
In  contrast  to  the  schoolman  he  sketches  the 
psychology  of  the  active-minded  but  "uneducated" 
man,  with  sympathy  and  understanding,  the  man 
who  is  courageously  seeking  a  way  with  little  to 
guide  and  help  him. 

Is  it  not  the  part  of  wisdom  to  cheer,  to  encourage 
such  a  mind,  rather  than  dishearten  it  with  ridicule? 
To   say  to  it:     Learn  that  the  mind  works  best  when 

[151] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


allowed  to  work  naturally;  learn  to  do  what  your  prob- 
lem suggests  when  you  have  reduced  it  to  its  simplest 
terms;  you  will  thus  find  that  all  problems,  however  com- 
plex, take  on  a  simplicity  you  had  not  dreamed  of; 
accept  this  simplicity  boldly,  and  with  confidence,  do  not 
lose  your  nerve  and  run  away  from  it,  or  you  are  lost, 
for  you  are  here  at  the  point  men  so  heedlessly  call 
genius — as  though  it  were  necessarily  rare;  for  you  are 
here  at  the  point  no  living  brain  can  surpass  in  essence, 
the  point  all  truly  great  minds  seek — the  point  of  vital 
simplicity — the  point  of  view  which  so  illuminates  the 
mind  that  the  art  of  expression  becomes  spontaneous, 
powerful,  and  unerring,  and  achievement  a  certainty. 
So,  if  you  seek  and  express  the  best  that  is  in  yourself, 
you  must  search  out  the  best  that  is  in  your  people; 
for  they  are  your  problem,  and  you  are  indissolubly  a 
part  of  them.  It  is  for  you  to  affirm  that  which  they 
really  wish  to  affirm,  namely,  the  best  that  is  in  them, 
and  they  as  truly  wish  you  to  express  the  best  that  is  in 
yourself.  If  the  people  seem  to  have  but  little  faith  it 
is  because  they  have  been  tricked  so  long;  they  are  weary 
of  dishonesty,  more  weary  than  they  know,  much  more 
weary  than  you  know,  and  in  their  hearts  they  seek  honest 
and  fearless  men,  men  simple  and  clear  in  mind,  loyal  to 
their  own  manhood  and  to  the  people.  The  American 
people  are  now  in  a  stupor;  be  on  hand  at  the  awaken- 


Next  he  pays  his  respects  to  current  architectural 
criticism — a  straining  at  gnats  and  a  swallowing  of 
[152] 


Louis  Sullivan 


camels,  by  minds  "benumbed  by  culture,"  and 
hearts  made  faint  by  the  tyranny  of  precedent.  He 
complains  that  they  make  no  distinction  between 
was  and  is,  too  readily  assuming  that  all  that  is 
left  us  modems  is  the  humble  privilege  to  select, 
copy  and  adapt. 

The  current  mannerisms  of  Architectural  criticism  must 
often  seem  trivial.  For  of  what  avail  is  it  to  say  that 
this  is  too  small,  that  too  large,  this  too  thick,  and  that 
too  thin,  or  to  quote  this,  that,  or  the  other  precedent, 
when  the  real  question  may  be:  Is  not  the  entire  design 
a  mean  evasion?  Wliy  magnify  this,  that,  or  the  other 
little  thing,  if  the  entire  scheme  of  thinking  that  the 
building  stands  for  is  false,  and  puts  a  mask  upon  the 
people,  who  want  true  buildings,  but  do  not  know  how 
to  get  them  so  long  as  Architects  betray  them  with  Archi- 
tectural phrases? 

And  so  he  goes  on  with  his  Jeremiad:  a  prophet 
of  despair,  do  you  say?  No,  he  seeks  to  destroy 
only  that  falsity  which  would  confine  the  living 
spirit.  Earlier  and  more  clearly  than  we,  he  dis- 
cerned the  menace  to  our  civilization  of  the  unre- 
stricted play  of  the  masculine  forces — powerful, 
ruthless,  disintegrating — the  head  dominating  the 
heart.  It  has  taken  the  surgery  of  war  to  open  our 
eyes,  and  behold  the  spectacle  of  the  entire  Ger- 

[153] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


man  nation  which  by  an  intellectual  process  appears 
to  have  killed  out  compassion,  enthroning  Schreck- 
lichkeit.  In  the  heart  alone  dwells  hope  of  salva- 
tion. "For  he  who  knows  even  a  genuinely  little  of 
Mankind  knows  this  truth:  the  heart  is  greater 
than  the  head.  For  in  the  heart  is  Desire;  and 
from  it  come  forth  Courage  and  Magnanimity." 

You  have  not  thought  deeply  enough  to  know  that 
the  heart  in  you  is  the  woman  in  man.  You  have  de- 
rided your  femininity,  where  you  have  suspected  it; 
whereas,  you  should  have  known  its  power,  cherished  and 
utilized  it,  for  it  is  the  hidden  well-spring  of  Intuition 
and  Imagination.  What  can  the  brain  accomplish  with- 
out these  two?  They  are  the  man's  two  inner  eyes;  with- 
out them  he  is  stone  blind.  For  the  mind  sets  forth 
their  powers  both  together.  One  carries  the  light,  the 
other  searches;  and  between  them  they  find  treasures. 
These  they  bring  to  the  brain,  which  first  elaborates 
them,  then  says  to  the  will,  "Do" — and  Action  follows. 
Poetically  considered,  as  far  as  the  huge,  disordered 
resultant  mass  of  your  Architecture  is  concerned,  In- 
tuition and  Imagination  have  not  gone  forth  to  illumi- 
nate and  search  the  hearts  of  the  people.  Thus  are  its 
works  stone  blind. 

It  is  the  absence  of  poetry  and  beauty  which 
makes  our  architecture  so  depressing  to  the  spirits. 
"Poetry  as  a  living  thing,"  says  Mr.  Sullivan, 
[154] 


Louis  Sullivan 


"stands  for  the  most  telling  quality  that  a  man  can 
impart  to  his  thoughts.  Judged  by  this  test  your 
buildings  are  dreary,  empty  places."  Artists  in 
words,  like  Lafcadio  Heam  and  Henry  James,  are 
able  to  make  articulate  the  sadness  which  our  cities 
inspire,  but  it  is  a  blight  which  lies  heavy  on  us 
all.  Theodore  Dreiser  says,  in  Sister  Carrie — a 
book  with  so  much  bitter  truth  in  it  that  it  was  sup- 
pressed by  the  original  publishers: 

Once  the  bright  days  of  summer  pass  by,  a  city  takes 
on  the  sombre  garb  of  grey,  wrapped  in  Which  it  goes 
about  its  labors  during  the  long  winter.  Its  endless 
buildings  look  grey,  its  sky  and  its  streets  assume  a 
sombre  hue;  the  scattered,  leafless  trees  and  wind-blown 
dust  and  paper  but  add  to  the  general  solemnity  of 
color.  There  seems  to  be  something  in  the  chill  breezes 
which  scurry  through  the  long,  narrow  thoroughfares 
productive  of  rueful  thoughts.  Not  poets  alone,  nor 
artists,  nor  that  superior  order  of  mind  which  arrogates 
to  itself  all  refinement,  feel  this,  but  dogs  and  all  men. 

The  excuse  that  we  are  too  young  a  people  to 
have  developed  an  architecture  instinct  with  that 
natural  poetry  which  so  charms  us  in  the  art  of 
other  countries  and  other  times,  Mr.  Sullivan  dis- 
poses of  in  characteristic  fashion.  To  the  plea  that 
"We  are  too  young  to  consider  these  accomplish- 

[155] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


ments.  We  have  been  so  busy  with  our  material 
development  that  we  have  not  found  time  to  con- 
sider them,"  he  makes  answer  as  follows: 

Know,  then,  to  begin  with,  they  are  not  accomplish- 
ments but  necessaries.  And,  to  end  with,  you  are  old 
enough,  and  have  found  the  time  to  succeed  in  nearly 
making  a  fine  art  of — Betrayal,  and  a  science  of — Graft. 
Know  that  you  are  as  old  as  the  race.  That  each  man 
among  you  had  in  him  the  accumulated  power  of  the 
race,  ready  at  hand  for  use,  in  the  right  way,  when  he 
shall  conclude  it  better  to  think  straight  and  hence  act 
straight  rather  than,  as  now,  to  act  crooked  and  pretend 
to  be  straight.  Know  that  the  test,  plain,  simple  honesty 
(and  you  all  know,  every  man  of  you  knows,  exactly 
what  that  means)  is  always  at  your  hand. 

Know  that  as  all  complex  manifestations  have  a  simple 
basis  of  origin,  so  the  vast  complexity  of  your  national 
unrest,  ill  health,  inability  to  think  clearly  and  accurately 
concerning  simple  things,  really  vital  things,  is  easily 
traceable  to  the  single,  actual,  active  cause — Dishonesty; 
and  that  this  points  with  unescapable  logic  and  in  just 
measure  to  each  individual  man! 

The  remedy; — individual  honesty. 

To  the  objection  that  this  is  too  simple  a  solution, 
Mr.  Sullivan  retorts  that  all  great  solutions  are  sim- 
ple, that  the  basic  things  of  the  universe  are  those 
which  the  heart  of  a  child  might  comprehend. 
"Honesty  stands  in  the  universe  of  Human  Thought 
[156] 


Louis  Sullivan 


and  Action,  as  its  very  Centre  of  Gravity,  and  is 
our  human  mask-word  behind  which  abides  all  the 
power  of  Nature's  Integrity,  the  profoundest  fact 
which  modem  thinking  has  persuaded  Life  to  re- 
veal." 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  reader  complains,  "All 
this  is  above  our  heads,"  Mr.  Sullivan  is  equally 
ready  with  an  answer: 

No,  it  is  not.  It  is  close  beside  your  hand!  and  therein 
lies  its  power. 

Again  you  say,  "How  can  honesty  be  enforced?" 

It  cannot  be  enforced! 

"Then  how  will  the  remedy  go  into  effect?" 

It  cannot  go  into  effect.  It  can  only  come  into  ef- 
fect. 

"Then  how  can  it  come?" 

Ask  Nature. 

"And  what  will  Nature  say?" 

Nature  is  always  saying :  "I  centre  at  each  man, 
woman  and  child.  I  knock  at  the  door  of  each  heart, 
and  I  wait.  I  wait  in  patience — ready  to  enter  with  my 
gifts." 

"And  is  that  all  that  Nature  says?" 

That  is  all. 

"Then  how  shall  we  recieive  Nature?" 

By  opening  wide  your  minds!  For  your  greatest 
crime  against  yourselves  is  that  you  have  locked  the 
door  and  thrown  away  the  key! 

[157] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


Thus,  by  a  long  detour,  Mr.  Sullivan  returns  to 
his  initial  proposition,  that  the  falsity  of  our  archi- 
tecture can  be  corrected  only  by  integrity  of 
thought.  "Thought  is  the  fine  and  powerful  in- 
strument. Therefore,  have  thought  for  the  integ- 
rity of  your  own  thought. 

Naturally,  then,  as  your  thoughts  thus  change,  your 
growing  architecture  will  change.  Its  falsity  will  de- 
part; its  reality  will  gradually  appear.  For  the  integrity 
of  your  thought  as  a  People,  will  then  have  penetrated  the 
minds  of  your  architects. 

Then,  too,  as  your  basic  thought  changes,  will  emerge 
a  philosophy,  a  poetry,  and  an  art  of  expression  in  all 
things;  for  you  will  have  learned  that  a  characteristic 
philosophy,  poetry  and  art  of  expression  are  vital  to  the 
healthful  growth  and  development  of  a  democratic  peo- 
ple. 

Some  readers  may  complain  that  these  are  after 
all  only  glittering  generalities,  of  no  practical  use 
in  solving  the  specific  problems  with  which  every 
architect  is  confronted.  On  the  contrary  they  are 
fundamental  verities  of  incalculable  benefit  to  every 
sincere  artist.  Shallowness  is  the  great  vice  of  de- 
mocracy; it  is  surface  without  depth,  a  welter  of 
concrete  detail  in  which  the  mind  easily  loses  those 
great,  underlying  abstractions  from  which  alone 
[158] 


Louis  Sullivan 


great  art  can  spring.  These,  in  this  essay,  Mr.  Sul- 
livan helps  us  to  recapture,  and  inspires  us  to  em- 
ploy. He  would  win  us  from  our  insincerities,  our 
trivialities,  and  awaken  our  enormous  latent,  un- 
used power.     He  says: 

Awaken  it. 
Use  it. 

Use  it  for  the  common  good. 
Begin  now! 

For  it  is  as  true  today  as  when  one  of  your  wise  men 
said  it: — 

"The  way  to  resume  is  to  resume ! " 


[159] 


COLOR  AND  CERAMICS 

THE  production  of  ceramics — perhaps  the  old- 
est of  all  the  useful  arts  practised  by  man; 
an  art  with  a  magnificent  history — seems  to 
be  entering  upon  a  new  era  of  development.  It  is 
more  alive  today,  more  generally,  more  skilfully, 
though  not  more  artfully  practised  than  ever  be- 
fore. It  should  therefore  be  of  interest  to  all  lov- 
ers of  architecture,  in  view  of  the  increasing  impor- 
tance of  ceramics  in  building,  to  consider  the  ways 
in  which  these  materials  may  best  be  used. 

Looking  at  the  matter  in  the  broadest  possible 
way,  it  may  be  said  that  the  building  impulse 
throughout  the  ages  has  expressed  itself  in  two 
fundamentally  different  types  of  structure:  that 
in  which  the  architecture — and  even  the  ornament 
— is  one  with  the  engineering;  and  that  in  which 
the  two  elements  are  separable,  not  in  thought 
alone,  but  in  fact.  For  brevity  let  us  name  that 
manner  of  building  in.  which  the  architecture  is  the 
construction.  Inherent  architecture,  and  that  man- 
[160] 


Color  and  Ceramics 


ner  in  which  the  two  are  separable  Incrusted  archi- 
tecture. 

To  the  first  class  belong  the  architectures  of 
Egypt,  Greece,  and  Gothic  architecture  as  prac- 
tised in  the  north  of  Europe;  to  the  second  belong 
Roman  architecture  of  the  splendid  period,  Moor- 
ish architecture,  and  Italian  Gothic,  so  called.  In 
the  first  class  the  bones  of  the  building  were  also  its 
flesh;  in  the  second  bones  and  flesh  were  in  a  man- 
ner separable,  as  is  proven  by  the  fact  that  they 
were  separately  considered,  separately  fashioned. 
Ruined  Kamak,  the  ruined  Parthenon,  wrecked 
Rheims,  show  ornament  so  integral  a  part  of  the 
fabric — etched  so  deep — that  what  has  survived 
of  the  one  has  survived  also  of  the  other;  while 
the  ruined  Baths  of  Caracalla  the  uncompleted 
church  of  S.  Petronio  in  Bologna,  and  many  a  stark 
mosque  on  many  a  sandy  desert  show  only  bare 
skeletons  of  whose  completed  glory  we  can  only 
guess.  In  them  the  fabric  was  a  framework  for 
the  display  of  the  lapidary  or  the  ceramic  art — 
a  garment  destroyed,  rent,  or  tattered  by  time  and 
chance,  leaving  the  bones  still  strong,  but  bare. 

This  classification  of  architecture  into  Inherent 
and  Incrusted  is  not  to  be  confused  with  the  dis- 
crimination   between     architecture     that     is     Ar- 

[161] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


ranged,  and  architecture  that  is  Organic,  a  classi- 
fication which  is  based  on  psychology — like  the 
difference  between  the  business  man  and  the  poet: 
talent  and  genius — whereas  the  classification 
which  the  reader  is  asked  now  to  consider  is  based 
rather  on  the  matter  of  expediency  in  the  use  of 
materials.  Let  us  draw  no  invidious  comparisons 
between  Inherent  and  Incrusted  architecture,  but 
regard  each  as  the  adequate  expression  of  an  ideal 
type  of  beauty;  the  one  masculine,  since  in  the 
male  figure  the  osseous  framework  is  more  easily 
discernible;  the  other  feminine,  because  more  con- 
cealed and  overlaid  with  a  cellular  tissue  of  shin- 
ing, precious  materials,  on  which  the  disruptive 
forces  in  man  and  nature  are  more  free  to  act. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  state  that  it  is  with 
Incrusted  architecture  that  we  are  alone  concerned 
in  this  discussion,  for  to  this  class  almost  all  mod- 
ern buildings  perforce  belong.  This  is  by  reason 
of  a  necessity  dictated  by  the  materials  that  we 
employ,  and  by  our  methods  of  construction.  Al] 
modem  buildings  follow  practically  one  method  of 
construction:  a  bony  framework  of  steel — or  of 
concrete  reinforced  by  steel — filled  in  and  sub- 
divided by  concrete,  brick,  hollow  fire-clay,  or  some 
of  its  substitutes.  To  a  construction  of  this  kind 
[162] 


Color  and  Ceramics 


some  sort  of  an  outer  encasement  is  not  only  aesthet- 
ically desirable,  but  practically  necessary.  It 
usually  takes  the  form  of  stone,  face-brick,  terra- 
cotta, tile,  stucco,  or  some  combination  of  two  or 
more  of  these  materials.  Of  the  two  types  of  archi- 
tecture the  Incrusted  type  is  therefore  imposed  by 
structural  necessity. 

The  enormous  importance  of  ceramics  in  its  rela- 
tion to  architecture  thus  becomes  apparent.  They 
minister  to  an  architectural  need  instead  of  gratify- 
ing an  architectural  whim.  Ours  is  a  period  of 
Incrusted  architecture — one  which  demands  the  en- 
casement, rather  than  the  exposure  of  structure,  and 
therefore  logically  admits  of  the  enrichment  of  sur- 
faces by  means  of  "veneers"  of  materials  more 
precious  and  beautiful  than  those  employed  in  the 
structure,  which  becomes,  as  it  were,  the  canvas  of 
the  picture,  and  not  the  picture  itself.  For  these 
purposes  there  are  no  materials  more  apt,  more 
adaptable,  more  enduring,  richer  in  potentialities 
of  beauty  than  the  products  of  ceramic  art.  They 
are  easily  and  inexpensively  produced  of  any  de- 
sired shape,  color,  texture;  their  hard,  dense  sur- 
face resists  the  action  of  the  elements,  is  not  easily 
soiled,  and  is  readily  cleaned;  being  fashioned  by 
fire  they  are  fire  resistant. 

[163] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


So  much  then  for  the  practical  demands,  in  mod- 
em architecture,  met  by  the  products  of  ceramic 
art.  The  aesthetic  demand  is  not  less  admirably 
met — or  rather  might  be. 

When,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  the  Renaissance 
spread  from  south  to  north,  color  was  practically 
eliminated  from  architecture.  The  Egyptians  had 
had  it,  hot  and  bright  as  the  sun  on  the  desert;  we 
know  that  the  Greeks  made  their  Parian  marble 
glow  in  rainbow  tints;  Moorish  architecture  was 
nothing  if  not  colorful,  and  the  Venice  Ruskin 
loved  was  fairly  iridescent — a  thing  of  fire-opal 
and  pearl.  In  Italian  Renaissance  architecture  up 
to  its  latest  phase,  the  color  element  was  always 
present;  but  it  was  snuffed  out  under  the  leaden  col- 
ored northern  skies.  Paris  is  grey,  London  is 
brown,  New  York  is  white,  and  Chicago  the  color 
of  cinders.  We  have  only  to  compare  them  to  yel- 
low Rome,  red  Siena,  and  pearl-tinted  Venice,  to 
realize  how  much  we  have  lost  in  the  elimination  of 
color  from  architecture.  We  are  coming  to  real- 
ize it.  Color  played  an  important  part  in  the  Pan- 
American  Exposition,  and  again  in  the  San  Fran- 
cisco Exposition,  where,  wedded  to  light,  it  became 
the  dominant  note  of  the  whole  architectural  con- 
cert. Now  these  great  expositions  in  which  the  ar- 
[164] 


Color  and  Ceramics 


chitects  and  artists  are  given  a  free  hand,  are  in 
the  nature  of  preliminary  studies  in  which  these 
functionaries  sketch  in  transitory  form  the  things 
they  desire  to  do  in  more  permanent  form.  They 
are  forecasts  of  the  future,  a  future  which  in  cer- 
tain quarters  is  already  beginning  to  realize  itself. 
It  is  therefore  probable  that  architectural  art  will 
become  increasingly  colorful. 

The  author  remembers  the  day  and  the  hour 
when  this  became  his  personal  conviction — his  per- 
sonal desire.  It  happened  years  ago  in  the  Al- 
bright Gallery  in  Buffalo — a  building  then  newly 
completed,  of  a  severely  classic  type.  In  the  cen- 
tral hall  was  a  single  doorway,  whose  white  marble 
architrave  had  been  stained  with  different  colored 
pigments  by  Francis  Bacon;  after  the  manner  of  the 
Greeks.  The  effect  was  so  charming,  and  made  the 
rest  of  the  place  seem  by  contrast  so  cold  and  dun, 
that  the  author  came  then  and  there  to  the  con- 
clusion that  architecture  without  polychromy  was 
architecture  incomplete.  Mr.  Bacon  spent  three 
years  in  Asia  Minor,  and  elsewhere,  studying  the 
remains  of  Greek  architecture,  and  he  found  and 
brought  home  a  fragment  of  an  antefix  from  the 
temple  of  Assos,  in  which  the  applied  color  was  still 
pure  and  strong.     The  Greeks  were  a  joyous  peo- 

[165] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


pie.  When  joy  comes  back  into  Hfe,  color  will 
come  back  into  architecture. 

Ceramic  products  are  ideal  as  a  means  to  this 
end.  The  Greeks  themselves  recognized  their 
value  for  they  used  them  widely  and  wisely:  it  has 
been  discovered  that  they  even  attached  bands  of 
colored  terra-cotta  to  the  marble  mouldings  of 
their  temples.  How  different  must  have  been  such 
a  temple's  real  appearance  from  that  imagined  by 
the  Classical  Revivalists,  whose  tradition  of  the 
inviolable  cold  Parian  purity  of  Greek  architec- 
ture has  persisted,  even  against  archaeological  evi- 
dence to  the  contrary,  up  to  the  present  day. 

In  one  way  we  have  an  advantage  over  the  Greek, 
if  we  only  had  the  wit  to  profit  by  it.  His  palette, 
like  his  musical  scale,  was  more  limited  than  ours. 
Nearly  the  whole  gamut  of  the  spectrum  is  now 
available  to  the  architect  who  wishes  to  employ 
ceramics.  The  colors  do  not  change  or  fade,  and 
possess  a  beautiful  quality.  Our  craftsmen  and 
manufacturers  of  face-brick,  terra-cotta,  and  col- 
ored tile,  after  much  costly  experimentation,  have 
succeeded  in  producing  ceramics  of  a  high  order 
of  excellence  and  intrinsic  beauty;  they  can  do 
practically  anything  demanded  of  them;  but  from 
that  quarter  where  they  should  reap  the  greatest 
[166] 


Color  and  Ceramics 


commercial  advantage — the  field  of  architecture — 
there  is  all  too  little  demand.  The  architect  who 
should  lead,  teach  and  dictate  in  this  field,  is  often 
through  ignorance  obliged  to  learn  and  follow  in- 
stead. This  has  led  to  an  ignominious  situation — 
ignominious,  that  is,  to  the  architect.  He  has 
come  to  require  of  the  manufacturer — when  he  re- 
quires anything  at  all — assistance  in  the  very  mat- 
ter in  which  he  should  assist:  the  determination  of 
color  design.  It  is  no  wonder  that  the  results 
are  often  bad,  and  therefore  discouraging.  The 
manufacturers  of  ceramics  welcome  co-operation 
and  assistance  on  the  part  of  the  architect  with  an 
eagerness  which  is  almost  pathetic,  on  those  rare 
occasions  when  assistance  is  offered. 

But  the  architect  is  not  really  to  blame:  the  rea- 
son for  his  failure  lies  deep  in  his  general  predica- 
ment of  having  to  know  a  little  of  everything,  and 
do  a  great  deal  more  than  he  can  possibly  do  well. 
To  cope  with  this,  if  his  practice  warrants  the  ex- 
penditure, he  surrounds  himself  with  specialists  in 
various  fields,  and  assigns  various  departments  of 
his  work  to  them.  He  cannot  be  expected  to  have 
on  his  staff  a  specialist  in  ceramics,  nor  can  he, 
with  all  his  manifold  activities,  be  expected  to  be- 
come such  a  specialist  himself.     As  a  result,  he  is 

[167] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


usually  content  to  let  color  problems  alone,  for 
they  are  just  another  complication  of  his  already 
too  complicated  life;  or  he  refers  them  to  some  one 
whom  he  thinks  ought  to  know — a  manufacturer's 
designer — and  approves  almost  anything  submit- 
ted. Of  course  the  ideal  architect  would  have  time 
for  every  problem,  and  solve  it  supremely  well; 
but  the  real  architect  is  all  too  human:  there  are 
depressions  on  his  cranium  where  bumps  ought  to 
be ;  moreover,  he  wants  a  little  time  left  to  energize 
in  other  directions  than  in  the  practice  of  his  craft. 
One  of  the  functions  of  architecture  is  to  reveal 
the  inherent  qualities  and  beauties  of  different  ma- 
terials, by  their  appropriate  use  and  tasteful  dis- 
play. An  onyx  staircase  on  the  one  hand,  and  a 
Portland  cement  high  altar  on  the  other,  alike  vio- 
late this  function  of  architecture;  they  transgress 
that  beautiful  necessity  which  decrees  that  precious 
materials  should  serve  precious  uses  and  common 
materials  should  serve  utilitarian  ends.  Now  color 
is  a  precious  thing,  and  its  highest  beauties  can 
be  brought  out  only  by  contrast  with  broad  neutral 
tinted  spaces.  The  interior  walls  of  a  mediaeval 
cathedral  never  competed  with  its  windows,  and  by 
the  same  token,  a  riot  of  polychromy  all  over  the 
side  of  a  building  is  not  as  effective,  even  from  a 
[168] 


Color  and  Ceramics 


chromatic  point  of  view,  as  though  it  were  con- 
fined, say,  to  an  entrance  and  a  frieze.  Gilbert's 
witty  phrase  is  applicable  here: 

"Where  everybody's  somebody,  nobody's  anybody." 

Let  us  build  our  walls,  then,  of  stone,  or  brick, 
or  stucco,  for  their  flat  surfaces  and  neutral  tints 
conduce  to  that  repose  so  essential  to  good  archi- 
tectural effect:  but  let  us  not  rest  content  with  this, 
but  grant  to  the  eye  the  delight  and  contentment 
which  it  craves,  by  color  and  pattern  placed  at 
those  points  to  which  it  is  desirable  to  attract  atten- 
tion, for  they  serve  the  same  aesthetic  purpose  as  a 
tiara  on  the  brow  of  beauty,  or  a  ring  on  a  delicate 
white  hand.  But  just  as  jewelry  is  best  when  it  is 
most  individual,  so  the  ornament  of  a  building 
should  be  in  keeping  with  its  general  character  and 
complexion.  A  color  scheme  should  not  be 
chosen  at  random,  but  dictated  by  the  prevailing 
tone  and  texture  of  the  wall  surfaces,  with  which 
it  should  harmonize  as  inevitably  as  the  blossom  of 
a  bush  with  its  prevailing  tone  of  stems  and  foliage. 
In  a  building  this  prevailing  tone  will  inevitably  be 
either  cold  or  warm,  and  the  color  scheme  just  as 
inevitably  should  be  either  cold  or  warm;  that  is, 
there  should  be  a  preponderance  of  cold  colors 

[169] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


over  warm,  or  vice  versa.  Otherwise  the  eye  will 
suffer  just  that  order  of  uneasiness  which  comes 
from  the  contemplation  of  two  equal  masses, 
whereas  it  experiences  satisfaction  in  proportion- 
ate unequals. 

Nothing  will  take  the  place  of  an  instinctive 
colour-sense,  but  even  that  needs  the  training  of 
experience,  if  the  field  be  new,  and  a  few  general 
principles  of  all  but  universal  application  will  not 
be  amiss. 

First  of  all  it  should  be  remembered  that  the  in- 
tensity of  color  should  be  carefully  adjusted  to  its 
area.  It  is  dangerous  to  try  to  use  high,  pure 
colors,  unrelieved  and  uncontrasted,  in  large 
masses,  but  the  brightest,  strongest  colors  may  be 
used  with  safety  in  units  of  sufficiently  restricted 
size.  For  harmony,  as  well  as  for  richness,  the  law 
of  complementaries,  in  its  most  general  application, 
is  the  safest  of  all  guides,  but  it  must  be  followed 
with  fine  discrimination.  Complementary  colors 
are  like  married  pairs,  if  they  find  the  right  adjust- 
ment with  one  another  they  are  happy — that  is, 
there  is  an  effect  of  beauty — but  lacking  such  ad- 
justment they  are  worse  off  together  than  apart. 
Every  artist  who  experiments  in  color  soon  finds 
out  for  himself  that  instead  of  using  two  colors 
[170] 


Color  and  Ceramics 


directly  complementary,  it  is  better  to  "split"  one 
of  them,  that  is,  use  instead  of  one  of  them  two 
others,  which  combined  will  yield  the  color  in 
question.  For  example,  the  color  complementary 
to  red  is  green-blue.  Now  green-blue  is  equidis- 
tant between  yellow-green  and  blue-violet,  so  if  for 
red  and  blue-green;  red,  yellow-green  and  blue- 
violet  be  substituted  the  combination  loses  its  obvi- 
ousness and  a  certain  harshness  without  losing  any- 
thing of  its  brilliance,  or  without  departing  from 
the  optical  law  involved.  Such  a  combination  cor- 
responds to  a  diminished  triad  in  music. 

Another  important  consideration  with  regard  to 
color  as  employed  by  the  architect  dwells  in  those 
optical  changes  effected  by  distance  and  position: 
the  relative  visibility  of  different  colors  and  com- 
binations of  colors  as  the  spectator  recedes  from 
them,  and  the  environmental  changes  which  colors 
undergo — in  bright  sunlight,  in  shadow,  against  the 
sky,  and  with  relation  to  backgrounds  of  different 
sorts. 

The  effect  of  distance  is  to  make  colors  merge 
into  one  another,  to  lower  the  values,  but  not  all 
equally.  Yellow  loses  itself  first,  tending  toward 
white.  The  effect  of  distance,  in  general,  is  to  dis- 
integrate and  decompose,  thus  giving  "vibration" 

[171] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


as  it  is  called.  A  knowledge  of  these  and  kindred 
facts  will  save  the  architect  from  many  disappoint- 
ments and  enable  him  to  obtain  wonderful  chro- 
matic effects  by  simple  means. 

Many  architects  unused  to  color  problems  de- 
sign their  ornament  with  very  little  thought  about 
the  colors  which  they  propose  to  employ,  making 
it  an  after-consideration;  but  the  two  things  should 
be  considered  synchronously  for  the  best  final 
effect.  There  is  a  cryptic  saying  that  "color  is 
at  right  angles  to  form,"  that  is,  color  is  capable 
of  making  surfaces  advance  toward  or  recede  from 
the  eye,  just  as  modelling  does;  and  for  this 
reason,  if  color  is  used,  a  great  deal  of 
modelling  may  be  dispensed  with.  If  a  re- 
ceding color  is  used  on  a  recessed  plane,  it 
deepens  that  plane  unduly;  while  on  the  other  hand 
if  a  color  which  refuses  to  recede — like  yellow  for 
example — is  used  where  depth  is  wanted,  the  reced- 
ing plane  and  the  approaching  color  neutralize 
one  another,  resulting  in  an  effect  of  flatness  not  in- 
tended. The  tyro  should  not  complicate  his  prob- 
lem by  combining  color  with  high  relief  model- 
ling, bringing  inevitably  in  the  element  of  light 
and  shade.  He  should  leave  that  for  older  hands 
and  concern  himself  rather  with  flat  or  nearly  flat 
[172] 


Color  and  Ceramics 


surfaces,  using  his  modelling  much  as  the  worker 
in  cloisonne  uses  his  little  rims  of  brass — to  confine 
and  define  each  color  within  its  own  allotted  area. 
Then,  as  he  gains  experience,  he  may  gradually  en- 
rich his  pattern  by  the  addition  of  the  element  of 
light  and  shade,  should  he  so  decide. 

Now  as  to  certain  general  considerations  in  rela- 
tion to  the  appropriate  and  logical  use  of  ceramics 
in  the  construction  and  adornment  of  buildings,  ex- 
terior and  interior.  In  our  northern  latitudes  care 
should  be  taken  that  ceramics  are  not  used  in  places 
and  in  ways  where  the  accumulation  of  snow  and 
ice  render  the  joints  subject  to  alternate  freezing 
and  thawing,  for  in  such  case,  unless  the  joints  are 
protected  with  metal,  the  units  will  work  loose  in 
time.  On  vertical  surfaces  such  protection  is  not 
necessary;  the  use  of  ceramics  should  therefore  be 
confined  for  the  most  part  to  such  surfaces:  for 
friezes,  panels,  door  and  window  architraves,  and 
the  like.  When  it  is  desirable  for  aesthetic  reasons 
to  tie  a  series  of  windows  together  vertically  by 
means  of  some  "fill"  of  a  material  different  from 
that  of  the  body  of  the  wall,  ceramics  lend  them- 
selves admirably  to  the  purpose — better  than  wood, 
which  rots;  than  iron,  which  rusts;  than  bronze, 
which  turns  black;  and  than  marble,  which  soon 

[173] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


loses  its  color  and  texture  in  exposed  situations  of 
this  sort. 

On  the  interior  of  buildings,  the  most  universal 
use  of  ceramics  is,  of  course,  for  floors,  and  with 
the  non-slip  devices  of  various  sorts  which  have 
come  into  the  market,  they  are  no  less  good  for 
stairs.  There  is  nothing  better  for  wainscoting, 
and  in  fact  for  any  surface  whatsoever  subject  to 
soil  and  wear.  These  materials  combine  perma- 
nent protection  and  permanent  decoration.  But 
fired  by  the  zeal  of  the  convert  the  use  of  ceramics 
may  be  overdone.  One  easily  recalls  entire  rooms 
of  this  material,  floors,  walls,  ceilings,  which  are 
less  successful  than  as  though  a  variety  of  materials 
had  been  employed.  It  is  just  such  variety — each 
material  treated  in  a  characteristic,  and  therefore 
diff^erent  way — that  gives  charm  to  so  many  for- 
eign churches  and  cathedrals:  walls  of  stone,  floors 
of  marble,  choir-stalls  of  carved  wood,  and  rood- 
screen  of  metal:  it  is  the  difference  between  an 
orchestra  of  various  instruments  and  a  mandolin 
orchestra  or  a  saxaphone  sextette.  Ceramics 
should  never  invade  the  domain  of  the  plasterer,  the 
mural  painter,  the  cabinet  maker.  Do  not  let  us, 
in  our  zeal  for  ceramics,  be  like  Bottom  the  weaver, 
eager  to  play  every  part. 
[174] 


Color  and  Ceramics 


Ceramics  have,  as  regards  architecture,  a  distinct 
and  honorable  function.  This  function  should  be 
recognized,  taken  advantage  of,  but  never  over- 
passed. They  offer  opportunities  large  but  not 
limitless.  They  constitute  one  instrument  of  the 
orchestra  of  which  the  architect  is  the  conductor,  an 
instrument  beautiful  in  the  hands  of  a  master,  and 
doubly  beautiful  in  concert  and  contrast  with  those 
other  materials  whose  harmonious  ensemble  makes 
that  music  in  three  dimensions:  architectural  art. 


[175] 


SYMBOLS  AND  SACRAMENTS 

ARCHITECTURE  is  the  concrete  presentment 
in  space  of  the  soul  of  a  people.  If  that 
soul  be  petty  and  sordid — "stirred  like  a 
child  by  little  things" — no  great  architecture  is  pos- 
sible because  great  architecture  can  image  only 
greatness.  Before  any  worthy  architecture  can 
arise  in  the  modern  world  the  soul  must  be  aroused. 
The  cannons  of  Europe  are  bringing  about  this 
awakening.  The  world — the  world  of  thought  and 
emotion  from  whence  flow  acts  and  events — is  no 
longer  decrepit,  but  like  Swedenborg's  angels  it  is 
advancing  toward  the  springtide  of  its  youth:  down 
the  ringing  grooves  of  change  "we  sweep  into  the 
younger  day." 

After  the  war  we  are  likely  to  witness  an  art 
evolution  which  will  not  be  restricted  to  statues  and 
pictures  and  insincere  essays  in  dry-as-dust  archi- 
tectural styles,  but  one  which  will  permeate  the 
whole  social  fabric,  and  make  it  palpitate  with  the 
rhythm  of  a  younger,  a  more  abundant  life. 
[176] 


PLATE   XV.      SYMBOL    OF    RESURRECTIOX 


Symbols  and  Sacraments 


Beauty  and  mystery  will  again  make  their  dwelling 
among  men;  the  Voiceless  will  speak  in  music,  and 
the  Formless  will  spin  rhythmic  patterns  on  the 
loom  of  space.  We  shall  seek  and  find  a  new  lan- 
guage of  symbols  to  express  the  joy  of  the  soul, 
freed  from  the  thrall  of  an  iron  age  of  materialism, 
and  fronting  the  unimaginable  splendors  of  the 
spiritual  life. 

For  every  aesthetic  awakening  is  the  result  of  a 
spiritual  awakening  of  some  sort.  Every  great  re- 
ligious movement  found  an  art  expression  eloquent 
of  it.  When  religion  languished,  such  things  as 
Versailles  and  the  Paris  Opera  House  were  pos- 
sible, but  not  such  things  as  the  Parthenon,  or  Notre 
Dame.  The  temples  of  Egypt  were  built  for  the 
celebration  of  the  rites  of  the  religion  of  Egypt;  so 
also  in  the  case  of  Greece.  Roman  architecture 
was  more  widely  secular,  but  Rome's  noblest  mon- 
ument, the  Pantheon,  was  a  religious  edifice.  The 
Moors,  inflamed  with  religious  ardor,  swept  across 
Europe,  blazing  their  trail  with  mosques  and  pal- 
aces conceived  seemingly  in  some  ecstatic  state  of 
dream.  The  Renaissance,  tainted  though  it  was 
by  worldliness,  found  still  its  inspiration  in  sacred 
themes,  and  recorded  its  beginning  and  its  end  in 
two   mighty   religious   monuments:    Brunelleschi's 

[179] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


and  Michael  Angelo's  domical  churches,  "wrought 
in  a  sad  sincerity"  by  deeply  religious  men. 
Gothic  art  is  a  synonym  for  mediaeval  Christianity; 
while  in  the  Orient  art  is  scarcely  secular  at  all,  but 
a  symbolical  language  framed  and  employed  for 
the  expression  of  spiritual  ideas. 

This  law,  that  spirituality  and  not  materialism 
distils  the  precious  attar  of  great  art,  is  perma- 
nently true  and  perennially  applicable,  for  laws  of 
this  order  do  not  change  from  age  to  age,  however 
various  their  manifestation.  The  inference  is 
plain:  until  we  become  a  religious  people  great 
architecture  is  far  from  us.  We  are  becoming  re- 
ligious in  that  broad  sense  in  which  churches  and 
creeds,  forms  and  ceremonies,  play  little  part. 
Ours  is  the  search  of  the  heart  for  something  greater 
than  itself  which  is  still  itself;  it  is  the  religion  of 
brotherhood,  whose  creed  is  love,  whose  ritual  is 
service. 

This  transformed  and  transforming  religion  of 
the  West,  the  tardy  fruit  of  the  teachings  of  Christ, 
now  secretly  active  in  the  hearts  of  men,  will  re- 
ceive enrichment  from  many  sources.  Science  will 
reveal  the  manner  in  which  the  spirit  weaves  its 
seven-fold  veil  of  illusion;  nature,  freshly  sensed, 
will  yield  new  symbols  which  art  will  organize 
[180] 


Symbols  and  Sacraments 


into  a  language;  out  of  the  experience  of  the  soul 
will  grow  new  rituals  and  observances.  But  one 
precious  tincture  of  this  new  religion  our  civiliza- 
tion and  our  past  cannot  supply;  it  is  the  heritage 
of  Asia,  cherished  in  her  brooding  bosom  for  un- 
counted centuries,  until,  by  the  operation  of  the  law 
of  cycles,  the  time  should  come  for  the  giving  of  it 
to  the  West. 

This  secret  is  Yoga,  the  method  of  self-develop- 
ment whereby  the  seeker  for  union  is  enabled  to 
perceive  the  shining  of  the  Inward  Light.  This  is 
achieved  by  daily  discipline  in  stilling  the  mind  and 
directing  the  consciousness  inward  instead  of  out- 
ward. The  Self  is  within,  and  the  mind,  which  is 
normally  centrifugal,  must  first  be  arrested,  con- 
trolled, and  then  turned  back  upon  itself,  and  held 
with  perfect  steadiness.  All  this  is  naively  ex- 
pressed in  the  Upanishads  in  the  passage,  *'The 
Self -existent  pierced  the  openings  of  the  senses  so 
that  they  turn  forward,  not  backward  into  himself. 
Some  wise  man,  however,  with  eyes  closed  and 
wishing  for  immortality,  saw  the  Self  behind." 
This  stilling  of  the  mind,  its  subjugation  and  con- 
trol whereby  it  may  be  concentrated  on  anything 
at  will,  is  particularly  hard  for  persons  of  our  race 
and  training,  a  race  the  natural  direction  of  whose 

[181] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


consciousness  is  strongly  outward,  a  training  in 
which  the  practice  of  introspective  meditation  finds 
no  place. 

Yoga — that  "union"  which  brings  inward  vision, 
the  contribution  of  the  East  to  the  spiritual  life  of 
the  West — will  bring  profound  changes  into  the  art 
of  the  West,  since  art  springs  from  consciousness. 
The  consciousness  of  the  West  now  concerns  itself 
with  the  visible  world  almost  exclusively,  and  West- 
em  art  is  therefore  characterized  by  an  almost 
slavish  fidelity  to  the  ephemeral  appearances  of 
things — the  record  of  particular  moods  and  mo- 
ments. The  consciousness  of  the  East  on  the  other 
hand,  is  subjective,  introspective.  Its  art  accord- 
ingly concerns  itself  with  eternal  aspects,  with  a 
world  of  archetypal  ideas  in  which  things  exist  not 
for  their  own  sake,  but  as  symbols  of  supernal 
things.  The  Oriental  artist  avoids  as  far  as  pos- 
sible trivial  and  individual  rhythms,  seeking  al- 
ways the  fundamental  rhythm  of  the  larger,  deeper 
life. 

Now  this  quality  so  earnestly  sought  and  so 
highly  prized  in  Oriental  art,  is  the  very  thing  which 
our  art  and  our  architecture  most  conspicuously 
lack.  To  the  eye  sensitive  to  rhythm,  our  essays  in 
these  fields  appear  awkward  and  unconvincing, 
[182] 


Symbols  and  Sacraments 


lacking  a  certain  inevitability.  We  must  restore 
to  art  that  first  great  canon  of  Chinese  aesthetics, 
^'Rhythmic  vitality,  or  the  life  movement  of  the 
spirit  through  the  rhythm  of  things."  It  cannot  be 
interjected  from  the  outside,  but  must  be  inwardly 
realized  by  the  "stilling"  of  the  mind  above  de- 
scribed. 

Art  cannot  dispense  with  symbolism;  as  the  let- 
ters on  this  page  convey  thoughts  to  the  mind,  so  do 
the  things  of  this  world,  organized  into  a  language 
of  symbols,  speak  to  the  soul  through  art.  But  in 
the  building  of  our  towers  of  Babel,  again  mankind 
is  stricken  with  a  confusion  of  tongues.  Art  has 
no  common  language;  its  symbols  are  no  longer 
valid,  or  are  no  longer  understood.  This  is  a  con- 
dition for  which  materialism  has  no  remedy,  for 
the  reason  that  materialism  sees  always  the  pattern 
but  never  that  which  the  pattern  represents.  We 
must  become  spiritually  illumined  before  we  can 
read  nature  truly,  and  re-create,  from  such  a  read- 
ing, fresh  and  universal  symbols  for  art.  This  is 
a  task  beyond  the  power  of  our  sad  generation, 
enchained  by  negative  thinking,  overshadowed  by 
war,  but  we  can  at  least  glimpse  the  nature  of  the 
reaction  between  the  mystic  consciousness  and  the 
things  of  this  world  which  will  produce  a  new  Ian- 

[183] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


guage  of  symbols.  The  mystic  consciousness  looks 
upon  nature  as  an  arras  embroidered  over  with  sym- 
bols of  the  things  it  conceals  from  view.  We  are 
ourselves  symbols,  dwelling  in  a  world  of  symbols 
— a  world  many  times  removed  from  that  ultimate 
reality  to  which  all  things  bear  figurative  witness; 
the  commonest  thing  has  yet  some  mystic  meaning, 
and  ugliness  and  vulgarity  exist  only  in  the  unil- 
lumined  mind. 

What  mystic  meaning,  it  may  be  asked,  is 
contained  in  such  things  as  a  brick,  a  house,  a  hat, 
a  pair  of  shoes?  A  brick  is  the  ultimate  atom 
of  a  building;  a  house  is  the  larger  body 
which  man  makes  for  his  uses,  just  as  the  Self  has 
built  its  habitation  of  flesh  and  bones;  hat  and  shoes 
are  felt  and  leather  insulators  with  which  we  seek 
to  cut  ourselves  off^  from  the  currents  which  flow 
through  earth  and  air  from  God.  It  may  be  ob- 
jected that  these  answers  only  substitute  for  the 
lesser  symbol  a  greater,  but  this  is  inevitable :  if  for 
the  greater  symbol  were  named  one  still  more  ab- 
stract and  inclusive,  the  ultimate  verity  would  be 
as  far  from  affirmation  as  before.  There  is  noth- 
ing of  which  the  human  mind  can  conceive  that  is 
not  a  symbol  of  something  greater  and  higher  than 
itself. 
[184] 


Symbols  and  Sacraments 


The  dictionary  defines  a  symbol  as  "something 
that  stands  for  something  else  and  serves  to  repre- 
sent it,  or  to  bring  to  mind  one  or  more  of  its  quali- 
ties." Now  this  world  is  a  reflection  of  a  higher 
world,  and  that  of  a  higher  world  still,  and  so  on. 
Accordingly,  everything  is  a  symbol  of  something 
higher,  since  by  reflecting,  it  "stands  for,  and  serves 
to  represent  it,"  and  the  thing  symbolized,  being 
itself  a  reflection,  is,  by  the  same  token,  itself  a 
symbol.  By  reiterated  repetitions  of  this  reflecting 
process  throughout  the  numberless  planes  and  sub- 
planes  of  nature,  each  thing  becomes  a  symbol,  not 
of  one  thing  only,  but  of  many  things,  all  inti- 
mately correlated,  and  this  gives  rise  to  those  un- 
derlying analogies,  those  "secret  subterranean  pas- 
sages between  matter  and  soul"  which  have  ever 
been  the  especial  preoccupation  of  the  poet  and  the 
mystic,  but  which  may  one  day  become  the  subject 
of  serious  examination  by  scientific  men. 

Let  us  briefly  pass  in  review  the  various  terms 
of  such  an  ascending  series  of  symbols:  members 
of  one  family,  they  might  be  called,  since  they 
follow  a  single  line  of  descent. 

Take  gold:  as  a  thing  in  itself,  without  any  sym- 
bolical significance,  it  is  a  metallic  element,  having 
a   characteristic   yellow   color,   very   heavy,   very 

[185] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


soft,  the  most  ductile,  malleable,  and  indestructible 
of  metals.  In  its  minted  form  it  is  the  life  force 
of  the  body  economic,  since  on  its  abundance  and 
free  circulation  the  well-being  of  that  body  de- 
pends; it  is  that  for  which  all  men  strive  and  con- 
tend, because  without  it  they  cannot  comfortably 
live.  This,  then,  is  gold  in  its  first  and  lowest 
symbolical  aspect:  a  life  principle,  a  motive  force 
in  human  affairs.  But  it  is  not  gold  which  has 
gained  for  man  his  lordship  over  nature;  it  is  fire, 
the  yellow  gold,  not  of  the  earth,  but  of  the  air, — 
cities  and  civilizations,  arts  and  industries,  have 
ever  followed  the  camp  fire  of  the  pioneer.  Sun- 
light comes  next  in  sequence — sunlight,  which 
focussed  in  a  burning  glass,  spontaneously  pro- 
duces flame.  The  world  subsists  on  sunlight;  all 
animate  creation  grows  by  it,  and  languishes  with- 
out it,  as  the  prosperity  of  cities  waxes  or  wanes 
with  the  presence  or  absence  of  a  supply  of  gold. 
The  magnetic  force  of  the  sun,  specialized  as  prana 
(which  is  not  the  breath  which  goes  up  and  the 
breatli  which  goes  down,  but  that  other,  in  which  the 
two  repose),  fulfils  the  same  function  in  the  human 
body  as  does  gold  in  civilization,  sunlight  in  na- 
ture: its  abundance  makes  for  health,  its  meagre- 
ness  for  enervation.  Higher  than  prana  is  the 
[186] 


Symbols  and  Sacraments 


mind,  that  golden  sceptre  of  man's  dominion,  the 
Promethean  gift  of  j&re  with  which  he  menaces  the 
empire  of  the  gods.  Higher  still,  in  the  soul,  love 
is  the  motive  force,  the  conqueror:  a  "heart  of 
gold"  is  one  warmed  and  lighted  by  love.  Still 
other  is  the  desire  of  the  spirit,  which  no  human 
affection  satisfies,  but  truth  only,  the  Golden  Per- 
son, the  Light  of  the  World,  the  very  Godhead  itself. 
Thus  there  is  earthy,  airy,  etheric  gold;  gold  as 
intellect,  gold  as  love,  gold  as  truth;  from  the  curse 
of  the  world,  the  cause  of  a  thousand  crimes,  there 
ascends  a  Jacob's  Ladder  of  symbols  to  divinity  it- 
self, whereby  men  may  learn  that  God  works  by 
sacrifice:  that  His  universe  is  itself  His  broken 
body.  As  gold  in  the  purse,  fire  on  the  forge,  sun- 
light for  the  eyes,  breath  in  the  body,  knowledge  in 
the  mind,  love  in  the  heart,  and  wisdom  in  the  un- 
derstanding. He  draws  all  men  unto  Him,  teaching 
them  the  wise  use  of  wealth,  the  mastery  over  na- 
ture, the  care  of  the  body,  the  cultivation  of  the 
mind,  the  love  of  wife  and  child  and  neighbour, 
and,  last  lesson  of  all.  He  teaches  them  that  in 
industry,  in  science,  in  art,  in  sympathy  and  under- 
standing. He  it  is  they  are  all  the  while  knowing, 
loving,  becoming;  and  that  even  when  they  flee 
Him,  His  are  the  wings — 

[187] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


"When  me  they  fly,  I  am  the  wings." 

This  attempt  to  define  gold  as  a  symbol  ends  with 
the  indication  of  an  ubiquitous  and  immanent  divin- 
ity in  everything.  Thus  it  is  always:  in  attempting 
to  dislodge  a  single  voussoir  from  the  arch  of  truth, 
the  temple  itself  is  shaken,  so  cunningly  are  the 
stones  fitted  together.  All  roads  lead  to  Rome, 
and  every  symbol  is  a  key  to  the  Great  Mystery: 
for  example,  read  in  the  light  of  these  correspond- 
ences, the  alchemist's  transmutation  of  base  metals 
into  gold,  is  seen  to  be  the  sublimation  of  man's 
lower  nature  into  "that  highest  golden  sheath,  which 
is  Brahman." 

Keeping  the  first  sequence  clearly  in  mind,  let  us 
now  attempt  to  trace  another,  parallel  to  it:  the 
feminine  of  which  the  first  may  be  considered  the 
corresponding  masculine.  Silver  is  a  white,  duc- 
tile metallic  element.  In  coinage  it  is  the  synonym 
for  ready  cash, — gold  in  the  bank  is  silver  in  the 
pocket;  hence,  in  a  sense,  silver  is  the  reflection,  or 
the  second  power  of  gold.  Just  as  ruddy  gold  is 
correlated  with  fire,  so  is  pale  silver  with  water; 
and  as  fire  is  affiliated  with  the  sun,  so  do  the  waters 
of  the  earth  follow  the  moon  in  her  courses.  The 
golden  sun,  the  silver  moon:  these  commonly  em- 
[188] 


Symbols  and  Sacraments 


ployed  descriptive  adjectives  themselves  supply  the 
correlation  we  are  seeking;  another  indication  of 
its  validity  lies  in  the  fact  that  one  of  the  character- 
istics of  water  is  its  power  of  reflecting;  that  moon- 
light is  reflected  sunlight.  "  If  gold  is  the  mind, 
silver  is  the  body,  in  which  the  mind  is  imaged, 
objectified;  if  gold  is  flamelike  love,  silver  is  brood- 
ing aff^ection;  and  in  the  highest  regions  of  con- 
sciousness, beauty  is  the  feminine  or  form  side  of 
truth — its  silver  mirror. 

There  are  two  forces  in  the  world,  one  of  projec- 
tion, the  other  of  recall;  two  states,  activity  and 
rest.  Nature,  with  tireless  ingenuity,  everywhere 
publishes  this  fact:  in  bursting  bud  and  falling 
seed,  in  the  updrawn  waters  and  the  descending 
rain;  throw  a  stone  into  the  air,  and  when  the  im- 
pulse is  exhausted,  gravity  brings  it  to  earth  again. 
In  civilized  society  these  centrifugal  and  centripetal 
forces  find  expression  in  the  anarchic  and  radical 
spirit  which  breaks  down  and  re-forms  existing 
institutions,  and  in  the  conservative  spirit  which 
preserves  and  upbuilds  by  gradual  accretion;  they 
are  analogous  to  igneous  and  to  aqueous  action  in 
the  formation  and  upbuilding  of  the  earth  itself, 
and  find  their  prototype  again  in  man  and  woman: 
man,  the  warrior,  who  prevails  by  the  active  exer- 

[189] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


cise  of  his  powers,  and  woman,  "the  treasury  of 
the  continued  race,"  who  conquers  hy  continual 
quietness.  Man  and  woman  symbolize  forces  cen- 
trifugal and  centripetal  not  alone  in  their  inner 
nature,  and  in  the  social  and  economic  functions 
peculiar  to  each,  but  in  their  physical  aspects  and 
peculiarities  as  well,  for  man  is  small  of  flank  and 
broad  of  shoulder,  with  relatively  large  extremities, 
i.  €.,  centrifugal:  while  woman  is  formed  with 
broad  hips,  narrow  shoulders,  and  small  feet  and 
hands,  i.  e.,  centripetal.  Woman's  instinctive  and 
unconscious  gestures  are  towards  herself,  man's  are 
away  from  himself.  The  physiologist  might  hold 
that  the  anatomical  differences  between  the  sexes 
result  from  their  diff^erence  in  function  in  the  re- 
production and  conservation  of  the  race,  and  this  is 
a  true  view,  but  the  lesser  truth  need  not  necessarily 
exclude  the  greater.  As  Chesterton  says,  "Some- 
thing in  the  evil  spirit  of  our  time  forces  people 
always  to  pretend  to  have  found  some  material  and 
mechanical  explanation."  Such  would  have  us  be- 
lieve, with  Schopenhauer  and  Bernard  Shaw,  that 
the  lover's  delight  in  the  beauty  of  his  mistress 
dwells  solely  in  his  instinctive  perception  of  her  fit- 
ness to  be  the  mother  of  his  child.  This  is  un- 
doubtedly a  factor  in  the  glamour  woman  casts  on 
[190] 


Symbols  and  Sacraments 


man,  but  there  are  other  factors  too,  higher  as  well 
as  lower,  corresponding  to  different  departments 
of  our  manifold  nature.  First  of  all,  there  is  mere 
physical  attraction:  to  the  man  physical,  woman  is 
a  cup  of  delight;  next,  there  is  emotional  love, 
whereby  woman  appeals  through  her  need  of  pro- 
tection, her  power  of  tenderness;  on  the  men- 
tal plane  she  is  man's  intellectual  companion,  his 
masculine  reason  would  supplement  itself  with  her 
feminine  intuition;  he  recognizes  in  her  an  objecti- 
fication,  in  some  sort,  of  his  own  soul,  his  spirit's 
bride,  predestined  throughout  the  ages;  while  the 
god  within  him  perceives  her  to  be  that  portion  of 
himself  which  he  put  forth  before  the  world  was,  to 
be  the  mother,  not  alone  of  human  children,  but  of 
all  those  myriad  forms,  within  which  entering,  "as 
in  a  sheath,  a  knife,"  he  becomes  the  Enjoyer,  and 
realizes,  vividly  and  concretely,  his  bliss,  his  wis- 
dom, and  his  power. 

Adam  and  Eve,  and  the  tree  in  the  midst  of  the 
garden!  After  man  and  woman,  a  tree  is  perhaps 
the  most  significant  symbol  in  the  world :  every  tree 
is  the  Tree  of  Life  in  the  sense  that  it  is  a  represen- 
tation of  universal  becoming.  To  say  that  all 
things  have  for  their  mother  prakriti,  undifferen- 
tiated substance,  and  for  their  father  purusha,  the 

[191] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


creative  fire,  is  vague  and  metaphysical,  and  con- 
veys little  meaning  to  our  image-bred,  image-fed 
minds;  on  the  physical  plane  we  can  only  learn 
these  transcendental  truths  by  means  of  symbols, 
and  so  to  each  of  us  is  given  a  human  father  and 
a  human  mother  from  whose  relation  to  one  another 
and  to  oneself  may  be  learned  our  relation  to  na- 
ture, the  universal  mother,  and  to  that  immortal 
spirit  which  is  the  father  of  us  all.  We  are  given, 
moreover,  the  symbol  of  the  tree,  which,  rooted  in 
the  earth,  its  mother,  and  nourished  by  her  juices, 
strives  ever  upward  towards  its  father,  the  sun. 
The  mathematician  may  be  able  to  demonstrate,  as 
a  result  of  a  lifetime  of  hard  thinking,  that  unity 
and  infinity  are  but  two  aspects  of  one  thing;  this 
is  not  clear  to  ordinary  minds,  but  made  concrete 
in  the  tree — unity  in  the  trunk,  infinity  in  the  foli- 
age— any  one  is  able  to  understand  it.  We  per- 
ceive that  all  things  grow  as  a  tree  grows,  from 
unity  to  multiplicity,  from  simplicity  and  strength 
to  beauty  and  fineness.  The  generation  of  the  line 
from  the  point,  the  plane  from  the  line,  and  from 
the  plane,  the  solid,  is  a  matter,  again,  which  chiefly 
interests  the  geometrician,  but  the  inevitable  se- 
quence stands  revealed  in  seed,  stem,  leaf,  and 
[192] 


Symbols  and  Sacraments 


fruit:  a  point,  a  line,  a  surface,  and  a  sphere. 
There  is  another  order  of  truths,  also,  which  a  tree 
teaches:  the  renewal  of  its  life  each  year  is  a  sym- 
bol of  the  reincarnation  of  the  soul,  teaching  that 
life  is  never-ending  climax,  and  that  what  appears 
to  be  cessation  is  merely  a  change  of  state.  A  tree 
grows  great  by  being  firmly  rooted ;  we  too,  though 
children  of  the  air,  need  the  earth,  and  grow  by 
good  deeds,  hidden,  like  the  roots  of  the  tree,  out  of 
sight;  for  the  tree,  rain  and  sunshine:  for  the  soul, 
tears  and  laughter  thrill  the  imprisoned  spirit  into 
conscious  life. 

We  love  and  understand  the  trees  because  we 
have  ourselves  passed  through  their  evolution,  and 
they  survive  in  us  still,  for  the  arterial  and  nervous 
systems  are  trees,  the  roots  of  one  in  the  heart, 
of  the  other  in  the  brain.  Has  not  our  body  its 
trunk,  bearing  aloft  the  head,  like  a  flower:  a  cup 
to  hold  the  precious  juices  of  the  brain?  Has  not 
that  trunk  its  tapering  limbs  which  ramify  into 
hands  and  feet,  and  these  into  fingers  and  toes,  after 
the  manner  of  the  twigs  and  branches  of  a  tree? 

Closely  related  to  symbolism  is  sacramentalism; 
the  man  who  sees  nature  as  a  book  of  symbols  is 
likely  to  regard  life  as  a  sacrament.     Because  this 

[193] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 

is  a  point  of  view  vitalizing  to  art  let  us  glance  at 
the  sacramental  life,  divorced  from  the  forms  and 
obseiTances  of  any  specific  religion. 

This  life  consists  in  the  habitual  perception  of 
an  ulterior  meaning,  a  hidden  beauty  and  signifi- 
cance in  the  objects,  acts,  and  events  of  every  day. 
Though  binding  us  to  a  sensuous  existence,  these 
nevertheless  contain  within  themselves  the  power 
of  emancipating  us  from  it:  over  and  above  their 
immediate  use,  their  pleasure  or  their  profit,  they 
have  a  hidden  meaning  which  contains  some  heal- 
ing message  for  the  soul. 

A  classic  example  of  a  sacrament,  not  alone  in 
the  ordinary  meaning  of  the  term,  but  in  the  special 
sense  above  defined,  is  the  Holy  Communion  of  the 
Christian  Church.  Its  origin  is  a  matter  of  com- 
mon knowledge.  On  the  evening  of  the  night  in 
which  He  was  betrayed,  Jesus  and  His  disciples 
were  gathered  together  for  the  feast  of  the  Pass- 
over. Aware  of  His  impending  betrayal,  and  de- 
sirous of  impressing  powerfully  upon  His  chosen 
followers  the  nature  and  purpose  of  His  sacrifice, 
Jesus  ordained  a  sacrament  out  of  the  simple  ma- 
terials of  the  repast.  He  took  bread  and  broke  it, 
and  gave  to  each  a  piece  as  the  symbol  of  His 
broken  body ;  and  to  each  He  passed  a  cup  of  wine, 
[194] 


Symbols  and  Sacraments 


as  a  symbol  of  His  poured-out  blood.  In  this  act, 
as  in  the  washing  of  the  disciples'  feet  on  the  same 
occasion,  He  made  His  ministrations  to  the  needs 
of  men's  bodies  an  allegory  of  His  greater  ministra- 
tion to  the  needs  of  their  souls. 

The  sacrament  of  the  Lord's  Supper  is  of  such 
beauty  and  power  diat  it  has  persisted  even  to  the 
present  day.  It  lacks,  however,  the  element  of 
universality — at  least  by  other  than  Christians  its 
universality  would  be  denied.  Let  us  seek,  there- 
fore some  all-embracing  symbol  to  illustrate  the 
sacramental  view  of  life. 

Perhaps  marriage  is  such  a  symbol.  The  public 
avowal  of  love  between  a  man  and  woman,  their 
mutual  assumption  of  the  attendant  privileges, 
duties  and  responsibilities  are  matters  so  pregnant 
with  consequences  to  them  and  to  the  race  that  by 
all  right-thinking  people  marriage  is  regarded  as 
a  high  and  holy  thing;  its  sacramental  character  is 
felt  and  acknowledged  even  by  those  who  would  be 
puzzled  to  tell  the  reason  why. 

The  reason  is  involved  in  the  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion, "Of  what  is  marriage  a  symbol?"  The  most 
obvious  answer,  and  doubtless  the  best  one,  is  found 
in  the  well  known  and  much  abused  doctrine,  com- 
mon to  every  religion,  of  the  spiritual  marriage  be- 

[195] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


tween  God  and  the  soul.  What  Christians  call  the 
Mystic  Way,  and  Buddhists  the  Path  comprises 
those  changes  in  consciousness  through  which  every 
soul  passes  on  its  way  to  perfection.  When  the 
personal  life  is  conceived  of  as  an  allegory  of  this 
inner,  intense,  super-mundane  life,  it  assumes  a  sac- 
ramental character.  With  strange  unanimity,  fol- 
lowers of  the  Mystic  Way  have  given  the  name  of 
marriage  to  that  memorable  experience  in  "the 
flight  of  the  Alone  to  the  Alone,"  when  the  soul, 
after  trials  and  purgations,  enters  into  indissoluble 
union  with  the  spirit,  that  divine,  creative  principle 
whereby  it  is  made  fruitful  for  this  world.  Mar- 
riage, then,  however  dear  and  close  the  union,  is 
the  symbol  of  a  union  dearer  and  closer,  for  it  is 
the  fair  prophecy  that  on  some  higher  arc  of  the 
evolutionary  spiral,  the  soul  will  meet  its  immortal 
lover  and  be  initiated  into  divine  mysteries. 

As  an  example  of  the  power  of  symbols  to  induce 
those  changes  of  consciousness  whereby  the  soul  is 
prepared  for  this  union,  it  is  recorded  that  an  emi- 
nent scientist  was  moved  to  alter  his  entire  mode  of 
life  on  reflecting,  while  in  his  bath  one  morning, 
that  though  each  day  he  was  at  such  pains  to  make 
clean  his  body,  he  made  no  similar  purgation  of 
his  mind  and  heart.  The  idea  appealed  to  him  so 
[196] 


Symbols  and  Sacraments 


profoundly  that  he  began  to  practise  the  higher 
cleanliness  from  that  day  forth. 

If  it  be  true,  as  has  been  said,  that  ordinary  life 
in  the  world  is  a  training  school  for  a  life  more 
real  and  more  sublime,  then  everything  pertaining 
to  life  in  the  world  must  possess  a  sacramental 
character,  and  possess  it  inherently,  and  not  merely 
by  imputation.  Let  us  discover,  then,  if  we  can, 
some  of  the  larger  meanings  latent  in  little  things. 

When  at  the  end  of  a  cloudy  day  the  sun  bursts 
forth  in  splendor  and  sets  red  in  the  west,  it  is  a 
sign  to  the  weather-wise  that  the  next  day  will  be 
fair.  To  the  devotee  of  the  sacramental  life  it 
holds  a  richer  promise.  To  him  the  sun  is  a  sym- 
bol of  the  love  of  God;  the  clouds,  those  worldly 
preoccupations  of  his  own  which  hide  its  face  from 
him.  This  purely  physical  phenomenon,  therefore, 
which  brings  to  most  men  a  scarcely  noticed  aug- 
mentation of  heat  and  light,  and  an  indication  of 
fair  weather  on  the  morrow,  induces  in  the  mystic 
an  ineffable  sense  of  divine  immanence  and  benefi- 
cence, and  an  assurance  of  their  continuance  be- 
yond the  dark  night  of  the  death  of  the  body. 

When  the  sacramentalist  goes  swimming  in  the 
sea  he  enjoys  to  the  full  the  attendant  physical  ex- 
hilaration, but  a  greater  joy  flows  from  the  thought 

[197] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


that  he  is  back  with  his  great  Sea-Mother — that 
feminine  principle  of  which  the  sea  is  the  perfect 
symbol,  since  water  brings  all  things  to  birth  and 
nurtures  them.  When  at  the  end  of  a  day  he  lays 
aside  his  clothes — that  two-dimensional  sheath  of 
the  three-dimensional  body — it  is  in  full  assurance 
that  his  body  in  turn  will  be  abandoned  by  the  in- 
wardly retreating  consciousness,  and  that  he  will 
range  wherever  he  wills  during  the  hours  of  sleep, 
clothed  in  his  subtle  four-dimensional  body,  related 
to  the  physical  body  as  that  is  related  to  the  clothes 
it  wears. 

To  every  sincere  seeker  nature  reveals  her  se- 
crets, but  since  men  differ  in  their  curiosities  she 
reveals  different  things  to  different  men.  All  are 
rewarded  for  their  devotion  in  accordance  with 
their  interests  and  desires,  but  woman-like,  nature 
reveals  herself  most  fully  to  him  who  worships  not 
the  fair  form  of  her,  but  her  soul.  This  favored 
lover  is  the  mystic;  for  ever  seeking  instruction  in 
things  spiritual,  he  perceives  in  nature  an  allegory 
of  the  soul,  and  interprets  her  symbols  in  terms  of 
the  sacramental  life. 

The  brook,  pursuing  its  tortuous  and  stony  path- 
way in  untiring  effort  to  reach  its  gravitational  cen- 
tre, is  a  symbol  of  the  Pilgrim's  progress,  impelled 
[198] 


Symbols  and  Sacraments 


by  love  to  seek  God  within  his  heart.  The  modest 
daisy  by  the  roadside,  and  the  wanton  sunflower 
in  the  garden  alike  seek  to  image  the  sun,  the  god 
of  their  worship,  a  core  of  seeds  and  fringe  of  petals 
representing  their  best  effort  to  mimic  the  flaming 
disc  and  far-flung  corona  of  the  sun.  Man  seeks 
less  ardently,  and  so  more  ineff'ectively  in  his  will 
and  imagination  to  image  God.  In  the  reverent 
study  of  insect  and  animal  life  we  gain  some  hint 
of  what  we  have  been  and  what  we  may  become — 
something  corresponding  to  the  grub,  a  burrowing 
thing;  to  the  caterpillar,  a  crawling  thing;  and 
finally  to  the  butterfly,  a  radiant  winged  creature. 

After  this  fashion  then  does  he  who  has  em- 
braced the  sacramental  life  come  to  perceive  in 
the  "sensuous  manifold"  of  nature,  that  one  di- 
vine Reality  which  ever  seeks  to  instruct  him  in 
supermundane  wisdom,  and  to  woo  him  to  super- 
human blessedness  and  peace.  In  time,  this  read- 
ing of  earth  in  terms  of  heaven,  becomes  a  settled 
habit.  Then,  in  Emerson's  phrase,  he  has  hitched 
his  wagon  to  a  star,  and  changed  his  grocer's  cart 
into  a  chariot  of  the  sun. 

The  reader  may  perhaps  fail  to  perceive  the 
bearing  of  this  long  discussion  of  symbols  and  sac- 
raments upon  the  subject  of  art  and  architecture, 

[199] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


but  in  the  mind  of  the  author  the  correlation  is 
plain.  There  can  be  no  great  art  without  religion: 
religion  begins  in  consciousness  as  a  mystic  experi- 
ence, it  flows  thence  into  symbols  and  sacraments, 
and  these  in  turn  are  precipitated  by  the  artist  into 
ponderable  forms  of  beauty.  Unless  the  artist 
himself  participates  in  this  mystic  experience,  life's 
deeper  meanings  will  escape  him,  and  the  work  of 
his  hands  will  have  no  special  significance.  Until 
it  can  be  said  of  every  artist 

"Himself  from  God  he  could  not  free," 
there  will  be  no  art  worthy  of  the  name. 


[200] 


SELF-EDUCATION  ' 

I  TAKE  great  pleasure  in  availing  myself  of  this 
opportunity  to  speak  to  you  on  certain  aspects 
of  the  art  which  we  practise.  I  cannot  for- 
get, and  I  hope  that  you  sufficiently  remember,  that 
the  architectural  future  of  this  country  lies  in  the 
hands  of  just  such  men  as  you.  Let  me  dwell  then 
for  a  moment  on  your  unique  opportunity.  Per- 
haps some  of  you  have  taken  up  architecture  as  you 
might  have  gone  into  trade,  or  manufacturing,  or 
any  of  the  useful  professions ;  in  that  case  you  have 
probably  already  learned  discrimination,  and  now 
realize  that  in  the  cutting  of  the  cake  of  human 
occupations  you  have  drawn  the  piece  which  con- 
tains the  ring  of  gold.  The  cake  is  the  business 
and  utilitarian  side  of  life,  the  ring  of  gold  is  the 
aesthetic,  the  creative  side:  treasure  it,  for  it  is  a 
precious  and  enduring  thing.  Think  what  your 
work  is:  to  reassemble  materials  in  such  fashion 
that  they  become  instinct  with  a  beauty  and  elo- 

1  An  address  delivered  before  the  Boston  Architectural  Club  in 
April,  1909. 

[201] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


quent  with  a  meaning  which  may  carry  inspiration 
and  delight  to  generations  still  unborn.  Immortal- 
ity haunts  your  threshold,  even  though  your  hand 
may  not  be  strong  enough  to  open  to  the  heavenly 
visitor. 

Though  the  profession  of  architecture  is  a  noble 
one  in  any  country  and  in  any  age,  it  is  particu- 
larly rich  in  inspiration  and  in  opportunity  here 
and  now,  for  who  can  doubt  that  we  are  about  to 
enter  upon  a  great  building  period?  We  have  what 
Mr.  Sullivan  calls  "the  need  and  the  power  to 
build,"  the  spirit  of  great  art  alone  is  lacking,  and 
that  is  already  stirring  in  the  secret  hearts  of  men, 
and  will  sooner  or  later  find  expression  in  objective 
and  ponderable  forms  of  new  beauty.  These  it  is 
your  privilege  to  create.  May  the  opportunity  find 
you  ready!  There  is  a  saying,  "To  be  young,  to 
be  in  love,  to  be  in  Italy!"  I  would  paraphrase 
it  thus:  To  be  young,  to  be  in  architecture,  to  be 
in  America. 

It  is  my  purpose  tonight  to  outline  a  scheme  of 
self-education,  which  if  consistently  followed  out  I 
am  sure  will  help  you,  though  I  am  aware  that  to 
a  certain  order  of  mind  it  will  seem  highly  mystical 
and  impractical.  If  it  commends  itself  to  your 
favor  I  shall  be  glad. 
[202] 


Self-Education 


Many  of  you  will  have  had  the  advantage  of  a 
thorough  technical  training  in  your  chosen  profes- 
sion: be  grateful  for  it.  Others,  like  Topsy,  "just 
growed" — or  have  just  failed  to  grow.  For  the 
solace  of  all  such,  without  wishing  to  be  under- 
stood to  disparage  architectural  schooling,  I  would 
say  that  there  is  a  kind  of  education  which  is  worse 
than  none,  for  by  filling  his  mind  with  ready-made 
ideas  it  prevents  a  man  from  ever  learning  to  think 
for  himself;  and  there  is  another  kind  which 
teaches  him  to  think,  indeed,  but  according  to  some 
arbitrary  method,  so  that  his  mind  becomes  a  canal 
instead  of  a  river,  flowing  in  a  predetermined  and 
artificial  channel,  and  unreplenished  by  the  hidden 
springs  of  the  spirit.  The  best  education  can  do  no 
more  than  to  bring  into  manifestation  that  which  is 
inherent;  it  does  this  by  means  of  some  stimulus 
from  without — from  books  and  masters — but  the 
stimulus  may  equally  come  from  within:  each  can 
develop  his  own  mind,  and  in  the  following  man- 
ner. 

The  alternation  between  a  state  of  activity  and  a 
state  of  passivity,  which  is  a  law  of  our  physical 
being,  as  it  is  a  law  of  all  nature,  is  characteristic 
of  the  action  of  the  mind  as  well:  observation  and 
meditation  are  the  two  poles  of  thought.     The  tend- 

[203] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


ency  of  modern  life  and  of  our  active  American 
temperament  is  towards  a  too  exclusive  functioning 
of  the  mind  in  its  outgoing  state,  and  this  results  in 
a  great  cleverness  and  a  great  shallowness.  It  is 
only  in  moments  of  quiet  meditation  that  the  great 
synthetic,  fundamental  truths  reveal  themselves. 
Observe  ceaselessly,  weigh,  judge,  criticize — this 
order  of  intellectual  activity  is  important  and  val- 
uable— but  the  mind  must  be  steadied  and  strength- 
ened by  another  and  a  different  process.  The 
power  of  attention,  the  ability  to  concentrate,  is  the 
measure  of  mental  efficiency;  and  this  power  may 
be  developed  by  a  training  exactly  analogous  to  that 
by  which  a  muscle  is  developed,  for  mind  and 
muscle  are  alike  the  instruments  of  the  Silent 
Thinker  who  sits  behind.  The  mind  an  instrument 
of  something  higher  than  the  mind:  here  is  a  truth 
so  fertile  that  in  the  language  of  Oriental  imagery, 
"If  you  were  to  tell  this  to  a  dry  stick,  branches 
would  grow,  and  leaves  sprout  from  it." 

There  is  nothing  original  in  the  method  of  mental 
development  here  indicated ;  it  has  been  known  and 
practised  for  centuries  in  the  East,  where  life  is 
less  strenuous  than  it  is  with  us.  The  method  con- 
sists in  silent  meditation  every  day  at  stated  peri- 
ods, during  which  the  attempt  is  made  to  hold  the 
[204] 


Self-Education 


mind  to  the  contemplation  of  a  single  image  or  idea, 
bringing  the  attention  back  whenever  it  wanders, 
killing  each  irrelevant  thought  as  it  arises,  as  one 
might  kill  a  rat  coming  out  of  a  hole.  This  turn- 
ing of  the  mind  back  on  itself  is  difficult,  but  I  know 
of  nothing  that  "pays"  so  well,  and  I  have  never 
found  any  one  who  conscientiously  practised  it  who 
did  not  confirm  this  view.  The  point  is,  that  if  a 
man  acquires  the  ability  to  concentrate  on  one  thing, 
he  can  concentrate  on  anything;  he  increases  his 
competence  on  the  mental  plane  in  the  same  manner 
that  pulling  chest-weights  increases  his  competence 
on  the  physical.  The  practice  of  meditation  has 
moreover  an  ulterior  as  well  as  an  immediate  ad- 
vantage, and  that  is  the  reason  it  is  practised  by 
the  Yogis  of  India.  They  believe  that  by  stilling 
the  mind,  which  is  like  a  lake  reflecting  the  sky, 
the  Higher  Self  communicates  a  knowledge  of  Itself 
to  the  lower  consciousness.  Without  the  working 
of  this  Oversoul  in  and  through  us  we  can  never 
hope  to  produce  an  architecture  which  shall  rank 
with  the  great  architectures  of  the  past,  for  in  Egypt, 
in  Greece,  in  mediaeval  France,  as  in  India,  China, 
and  Japan,  mysticism  made  for  itself  a  language 
more  eloquent  than  any  in  which  the  purely  ra- 
tional consciousness  of  man  has  ever  spoken. 

[205] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


We  are  apt  to  overestimate  the  importance  of 
books  and  book  learning.  Think  how  small  a  part 
books  have  played  in  the  development  of  architec- 
ture; indeed,  Palladio  and  Vignola,  with  their  hard 
and  fast  formulae  have  done  the  art  more  harm 
than  good.  It  is  a  fallacy  diat  reading  strengthens 
the  mind — it  enervates  it;  reading  sometimes  stim- 
ulates the  mind  to  original  thinking,  and  this  de- 
velops it,  but  reading  itself  is  a  passive  exercise, 
because  the  thought  of  the  reader  is  for  the  time 
being  in  abeyance  in  order  that  the  thought  of  the 
writer  may  enter.  Much  reading  impairs  the 
power  to  think  originally  and  consecutively.  Few 
of  the  great  creators  of  the  world  have  had  use  for 
books,  and  if  you  aspire  to  be  in  their  class  you 
will  avoid  the  "spawn  of  the  press."  The  best  plan 
is  to  read  only  great  books,  and  having  read  for  five 
minutes,  think  about  what  you  have  read  for  ten. 

These  exercises,  faithfully  followed  out,  will 
make  your  mind  a  fit  vehicle  for  the  expression  of 
your  idea,  but  the  advice  I  have  given  is  as  perti- 
nent to  any  one  who  uses  his  mind  as  it  is  to  the 
architect.  To  what,  specifically,  should  the  archi- 
tectural student  devote  his  attention  in  order  to 
improve  the  quality  of  his  work?  My  own  answer 
would  be  that  he  should  devote  himself  to  the  study 
[206] 


Self-Education 


of  music,  of  the  human  figure,  and  to  the  study  of 
Nature — "first,  last,  midst,  and  without  end." 

The  correlation  between  music  and  architecture 
is  no  new  thought;  it  is  implied  in  the  famous  say- 
ing that  architecture  is  frozen  music.  Vitruvius 
considered  a  knowledge  of  music  to  be  a  qualifica- 
tion of  the  architect  of  his  day,  and  if  it  was  desir- 
able then  it  is  no  less  so  now.  There  is  both  a 
metaphysical  reason  and  a  practical  one  why  this 
is  so.  Walter  Pater,  in  a  famous  phrase,  declared 
that  all  art  constantly  aspires  to  the  condition  of 
music,  by  which  he  meant  to  imply  that  there  is  a 
certain  rhythm  and  harmony  at  the  root  of  every 
art,  of  which  music  is  the  perfect  and  pure  expres- 
sion; that  in  music  the  means  and  the  end  are  one 
and  the  same.  This  coincides  with  Schopenhauer's 
theory  about  music,  that  it  is  the  most  perfect  and 
unconditioned  sensuous  presentment  known  to  us 
of  that  undying  will-to-live  which  constitutes  life 
and  the  world.  Metaphysics  aside,  the  architect 
ought  to  hear  as  much  good  music  as  he  can,  and 
learn  the  rudiments  of  harmony,  at  least  to  the  ex- 
tent of  knowing  the  simple  numerical  ratios  which 
govern  the  principal  consonant  intervals  within  the 
octave,  so  that,  translating  these  ratios  into  intervals 
of  space  expressed  in  terms  of  length  and  breadth, 

[207] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


height,  and  width,  his  work  will  "aspire  to  the  con- 
dition of  music." 

There  is  a  metaphysical  reason,  too,  as  well  as  a 
practical  one,  why  an  architect  should  know  the 
human  figure.  Carlyle  says,  "There  is  but  one 
temple  in  the  world,  and  that  is  the  body  of  man." 
If  the  body  is,  as  he  declares,  a  temple,  it  is  no  less 
true  that  a  temple,  or  any  work  of  architectural  art 
is  in  the  nature  of  an  ampler  body  which  man  has 
created  for  his  uses,  and  which  he  inhabits,  just  as 
the  individual  consciousness  builds  and  inhabits  its 
fleshly  stronghold.  This  may  seem  a  highly  mysti- 
cal idea,  but  the  correlation  between  the  house  and 
its  inhabitant,  and  the  body  and  its  consciousness  is 
everywhere  close,  and  is  susceptible  of  infinite  elab- 
oration. 

Architectural  beauty,  like  human  beauty,  de- 
pends upon  a  proper  subordination  of  parts  to  the 
whole,  a  harmonious  interrelation  between  these 
parts,  the  expressiveness  of  each  of  its  functions, 
and  when  these  are  many  and  diverse,  their  recon- 
cilement one  with  another.  This  being  so,  a  study 
of  the  human  figure  with  a  view  to  analyzing  the 
sources  of  its  beauty  cannot  fail  to  be  profitable  to 
the  architectural  designer.  Pursued  intelligently, 
such  study  will  stimulate  the  mind  to  a  perception 
[208] 


Self-Education 


of  those  simple  yet  subtle  laws  according  to  which 
nature  everywhere  works,  and  it  will  educate  the 
eye  in  the  finest  known  school  of  proportion,  train- 
ing it  to  distinguish  minute  differences,  in  the  same 
way  that  the  hearing  of  good  music  cultivates  the 
ear. 

It  is  neither  necessary  nor  desirable  to  make 
elaborate  and  carefully  shaded  drawings  from  a 
posed  model;  an  equal  number  of  hours  spent  in 
copying  and  analyzing  the  plates  of  a  good  art 
anatomy,  supplemented  with  a  certain  amount  of 
life  drawing,  done  merely  with  a  view  to  catch  the 
pose,  will  be  found  to  be  a  more  profitable  exercise, 
for  it  will  make  you  familiar  with  the  principal  and 
subsidiary  proportions  of  the  bodily  temple,  and 
give  you  sufficient  data  to  enable  you  to  indicate  a 
figure  in  any  position  with  fair  accuracy. 

I  recommend  the  study  of  Nature  because  I  be- 
lieve that  such  study  will  assist  you  to  recover  that 
direct  and  instant  perception  of  beauty,  our  natural 
birthright,  of  which  over-sophistication  has  so  be- 
reft us  that  we  no  longer  know  it  to  be  ours  by  right 
of  inheritance — inheritance  from  that  cosmic  mat- 
ter endowed  with  motion  out  of  which  we  are  fash- 
ioned, proceeding  ever  rationally  and  rhythmically 
to  its  appointed  ends.     We  are  all  of  us  participat- 

[209] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 

ors  in  a  world  of  concrete  music,  geometry  and 
number — a  world,  that  is,  so  mathematically  con- 
stituted and  co-ordinated  that  our  pigmy  bodies, 
equally  with  the  farthest  star,  throb  to  the  music 
of  the  spheres.  The  blood  flows  rhythmically,  the 
heart  its  metronome;  the  moving  limbs  weave  pat- 
terns; the  voice  stirs  into  radiating  sound-waves  that 
pool  of  silence  which  we  call  the  air. 

"Thou  canst  not  wave  thy  staff  in  air, 

Or  dip  thy  paddle  in  the  lake, 
But  it  carves  the  bow  of  beauty  there, 

And  ripples  in  rhyme  the  oar  forsake." 

The  whole  of  animate  creation  labours  under 
the  beautiful  necessity  of  being  beautiful.  Every- 
where it  exhibits  a  perfect  utility  subservient  to 
harmonious  laws.  Nature  is  the  workshop  in 
which  are  built  beautiful  organisms.  This  is  ex- 
actly the  aim  of  the  architect — to  fashion  beautiful 
organisms;  what  better  school,  therefore,  could  he 
have  in  which  to  learn  his  trade? 

To  study  Nature  it  is  not  necessary  to  go  out  into 
the  fields  and  botanize,  nor  to  attempt  to  make 
water  colours  of  picturesque  scenery.  These 
things  are  very  well,  but  not  so  profitable  to  your 
particular  purpose  as  observation  directed  toward 
[210] 


Self-Education 


the  discovery  of  the  laws  which  underlie  and  deter- 
mine form  and  structure,  such  as  the  tracing  of  the 
spiral  line,  not  alone  where  it  is  obvious,  as  in  the 
snail's  shell  and  in  the  ram's  horn,  but  where  it 
appears  obscurely,  as  in  the  disposition  of  leaves  or 
twigs  upon  a  parent  stem.  Such  laws  of  nature 
are  equally  laws  of  art,  for  art  is  nature  carried  to 
a  higher  power  by  reason  of  its  passage  through  a 
human  consciousness.  Thought  and  emotion  tend 
to  crystallize  into  forms  of  beauty  as  inevitably, 
and  according  to  the  same  laws,  as  does  the  frost  on 
the  window  pane.  Art,  in  one  of  its  aspects,  is  the 
weaving  of  a  pattern,  the  communication  of  an  or- 
der and  a  method  to  lines,  forms,  colors,  sounds. 
All  very  poetical,  and  possibly  true,  you  may  be 
saying  to  yourselves,  but  what  has  it  to  do  with 
architecture,  which  nowadays,  at  least,  is  preemi- 
nently a  practical  and  utilitarian  art  whose  highest 
mission  is  to  fulfil  definite  conditions  in  an  econom- 
ical and  admirable  way;  whose  supreme  excellence 
is  fitness,  appropriateness,  the  perfect  adaptation 
of  means  to  ends,  and  the  apt  expression  of  both 
means  and  ends?  Yes,  architecture  is  all  of  this, 
but  this  is  not  all  of  architecture;  else  the  most  effi- 
cient engineer  would  be  the  most  admirable  archi- 
tect, which  does  not  happen  to  be  the  case.     Along 

[211] 


Architecture  and  Democracy 


with  the  expression  of  the  concrete  and  individual 
must  go  the  expression  of  the  abstract  and  univer- 
sal; the  two  can  be  combined  in  a  single  building 
in  the  same  way  that  in  every  human  countenance 
are  combined  a  racial  or  temperamental  type, 
which  is  universal,  and  a  character,  which  is  indi- 
vidual. The  expression  of  any  sort  of  cosmic 
trutli,  of  universal  harmony  and  rhythm,  is  the 
quality  which  our  architecture  most  conspicuously 
lacks.  Failing  to  find  the  cosmic  truth  within  our- 
selves, failing  to  vibrate  to  the  universal  harmony 
and  rhythm,  our  architecture  is — well,  what  it  is, 
for  only  that  which  is  native  to  our  living  spirit  can 
we  show  forth  in  the  work  of  our  hands. 

Your  work  will  be,  in  the  last  analysis,  what 
you  yourselves  are.  Let  no  sophistry  blind  you  to 
the  truth  of  that.  There  are  rhythms  in  the  world 
of  space  which  we  find  only  in  the  architecture  of 
the  past,  and  enamoured  of  their  beauty  we  repeat 
them  over  and  over  (off  the  key  for  the  most  part), 
on  the  principle  that  all  the  songs  have  been  sung; 
or  we  just  make  a  noise,  on  the  principle  that  noise 
is  all  there  is  to  architecture  anyway.  It  is  not  so. 
Those  systems  of  spatial  rhythms  which  we  call 
Egyptian,  Classic,  Gothic,  Renaissance  architecture 
and  the  rest,  are  records  all  of  the  living  human 
[212] 


Self-Education 


spirit  energizing  in  the  stubborn  matter  of  the  phys- 
ical plane  with  joy,  with  conviction,  with  mastery. 
When  that  undying  spirit  awakes  again  in  you, 
stirred  into  consciousness  by  meditation,  which  is 
its  prayer;  by  music,  which  is  its  praise;  by  the 
contemplation  of  that  fair  form  which  is  its  temple; 
and  by  communion  with  nature,  which  is  its  look- 
ing-glass; you  will  experience  again  that  ancient 
joy,  hold  again  that  firm  conviction,  and  exercise 
again  that  mastery  to  transfuse  the  granite  and  iron 
heart  of  the  hills  into  patterns  unlike  any  that  the 
hand  of  man  has  made  before. 


[213] 


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